THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


A    001  168597     1 


THE  WORKS  OF 

JOHN  M.  SYNGE 


VOLUME  ONE 


JOHN  W.  LUCE  AND  COMPANY 
BOSTON      .  .       .       .       1912 


Copyright,  1904 
By  J.  M.  Synge 


College 

iSSS 

PR 


CONTENTS 

IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  GLEN 
RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 
THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 
THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  GLEN 


IN    THE    SHADOW    OF   THE   GLEN 
A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 

First    performed    at    the    Molesworth    Hall, 
Dublin,  October  Sth,  1903. 

PERSONS 

DAN  BURKE  (farmer  and  herd}  . 

George  Roberts 

NORA  BURKE   (his  wife}     .     .     . 

Maire  Nic  Shiubhlaigh 

MICHEAL  DARA  (a  young  herd}   .  P.  J.  Kelly 
A  TRAMP W.  G.  Fay 


IN    THE    SHADOW    OF   THE    GLEN 
A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 

First    performed    at    the    Molesivorth    Hall, 
Dublin,  October  8th,  1903. 

SCENE. — The  last  cottage  at  the  head  of  a 
long  glen  in  County  Wicklow. 

(Cottage  kitchen;  turf  fire  on  the  right;  a 
bed  near  it  against  the  wall  with  a  body  lying 
on  it  covered  with  a  sheet.  A  door  is  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  with  a  loiv  table  near  it, 
and  stools,  or  ivooden  chairs.  There  are  a 
couple  of  glasses  on  the  table,  and  a  bottle  of 
whisky,  as  if  for  a  wake,  with  two  cups,  a  tea- 
pot, and  a  home-made  cake.  There  is  another 
small  door  near  the  bed.  Nora  Burke  is  mov- 
ing about  the  room,  settling  a  few  things,  and 
lighting  candles  on  the  table,  looking  now  and 
then  at  the  bed  with  an  uneasy  look.  Some  one 
knocks  softly  at  the  door.  She  tak^s  up  a 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

stocking  until  money  from  the  table  and  puts  it 
in  her  pocket.     Then  she  opens  the  door. ) 

TRAMP 
Outside. 
Good  evening  to  you,  lady  of  the  house. 

NORA 

Good  evening,  kindly  stranger,  it's  a  wild 
night,  God  help  you,  to  be  out  in  the  rain  fall- 
ing. 

TRAMP 

It  is,  surely,  and  I  walking  to  Brittas  from 
the  Aughrim  fair. 

NORA 

Is  it  walking  on  your  feet,  stranger  ? 

TRAMP 

On  my  two  feet,  lady  of  the  house,  and  when 
I  saw  the  light  below  I  thought  maybe  if  you'd 
a  sup  of  new  milk  and  a  quiet  decent  corner 
wrhere  a  man  could  sleep  (he  looks  in  past  her 
and  sees  the  dead  man}.  The  Lord  have  mercy 
on  us  all ! 

NORA 

It  doesn't  matter  anyway,  stranger,  come  in 
out  of  the  rain. 

8 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

TRAMP 

Coming  in  slozvly  and  going  towards 

the  bed. 
Is  it  departed  he  is? 

NORA 

It  is,  stranger.  He's  after  dying  on  me,  God 
forgive  him,  and  there  I  am  now  with  a  hun- 
dred sheep  beyond  on  the  hills,  and  no  turf 
drawn  for  the  winter. 

TRAMP 
Looking  closely  at  the  dead  man. 

It's  a  queer  look  is  on  him  for  a  man  that's 
dead. 

NORA 

Half -humorously. 

He  was  always  queer,  stranger,  and  I  sup- 
pose them  that's  queer  and  they  living  men 
will  be  queer  bodies  after. 

TRAMP 

Isn't  it  a  great  wonder  you're  letting  him 
lie  there,  and  he  is  not  tidied,  or  laid  out  itself? 

NORA 

Coming  to  the  bed. 
I  was  aferrd,  stranger,  for  he  put  a  black 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

curse  on  me  this  morning  if  I'ld  touch  his  body 
the  time  he'ld  die  sudden,  or  let  any  one  touch 
it  except  his  sister  only,  and  it's  ten  miles  away 
she  lives  in  the  big  glen  over  the  hill. 

TRAMP 
Looking  at  her  and  nodding  slowly. 

It's  a  queer  story  he  wouldn't  let  his  own 
wife  touch  him,  and  he  dying  quiet  in  his  bed. 

NORA 

He  was  an  old  man,  and  an  odd  man, 
stranger,  and  it's  always  up  on  the  hills  he  was 
thinking  thoughts  in  the  dark  mist.  (She  pulls 
back  a  bit  of  the  sheet.)  Lay  your  hand  on  him 
now,  and  tell  me  if  it's  cold  he  is  surely. 

TRAMP 

Is  it  getting  the  curse  on  me  you'ld  be, 
woman  of  the  house  ?  I  wouldn't  lay  my  hand 
on  him  for  the  Lough  Nahanagan  and  it  filled 
with  gold. 

NORA 
Looking  uneasily  at  the  body. 

Maybe  cold  would  be  no  sign  of  death  with 

the  like  of  him,  for  he  was  always  cold,  every 

day    since    I-  knew    him,  —  and    every    night, 

stranger.  —  (she  covers  tip  his  face  and  comes 

10 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

away  from  the  bed)  ;  but  I'm  thinking  it's 
dead  he  is  surely,  for  he's  complaining  a  while 
back  of  a  pain  in  his  heart,  and  this  morning, 
the  time  he  was  going  off  to  Brittas  for  three 
days  or  four,  he  was  taken  with  a  sharp  turn. 
Then  he  went  into  his  bed  and  he  was  saying  it 
was  destroyed  he  was,  the  time  the  shadow  was 
going  up  through  the  glen,  and  when  the  sun 
set  on  the  bog  beyond  he  made  a  great  lep,  and 
let  a  great  cry  out  of  him,  and  stiffened  him- 
self out  the  like  of  a  dead  sheep. 

TRAMP 
Crosses  himself. 
God  rest  his  soul. 

NORA 

Pouring  him  out  a  glass  of  whisky. 
Maybe  that  would  do  you  better  than  the 
milk  of  the  sweetest  cow  in  County  Wicklow. 

TRAMP 

The  Almighty  God  reward  you,  and  may  it 
be  to  your  good  health. 

He  drinks. 

NORA 

Giving  him  a  pipe  and  tobacco. 
I've  no  pipes  saving  his  own,  stranger,  but 
they're  sweet  pipes  to  smoke. 


ii 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

TRAMP 
Thank  you  kindly,  lady  of  the  house. 

NORA 

Sit  down  now,  stranger,  and  be  taking  your 
rest. 

TRAMP 

Filling  a  pipe  and  looking  about  the 

room. 

I've  walked  a  great  way  through  the  world, 
lady  of  the  house,  and  seen  great  wonders, 
but  I  never  seen  a  wake  till  this  day  with  fine 
spirits,  and  good  tobacco,  and  the  best  of  pipes, 
and  no  one  to  taste  them  but  a  woman  only. 

NORA 

Didn't  you  hear  me  say  it  was  only  after 
dying  on  me  he  was  when  the  sun  went  down, 
and  how  would  I  go  out  into  the  glen  and  tell 
the  neighbours,  and  I  a  lone  woman  with  no 
house  near  me? 

TRAMP 
Drinking. 
There's  no  offence,  lady  of  the  house? 

NORA 

No  offence  in  life,  stranger.     How  would 
the  like  of  you,  passing  in  the  dark  night,  know 
12 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

the  lonesome  way  I  was  with  no  house  near 
me  at  all? 

TRAMP 

Sitting  down. 

I  knew  rightly.  (He  lights  his  pipe  so  that 
there  is  a  sharp  light  beneath  his  haggard 
face.)  And  I  was  thinking,  and  I  coming  in 
through  the  door,  that  it's  many  a  lone  woman 
would  be  afeard  of  the  like  of  me  in  the  dark 
night,  in  a  place  wouldn't  be  as  lonesome  as 
this  place,  where  there  aren't  two  living  souls 
would  see  the  little  light  you  have  shining  from 
the  glass. 

NORA 

Slowly. 

I'm  thinking  many  would  be  afeard,  but  I 
never  knew  what  way  I'd  be  afeard  of  beggar 
or  bishop  or  any  man  of  you  at  all.  (She  looks 
towards  the  window  and  lowers  her  voice.) 
It's  other  things  than  the  like  of  you,  stranger, 
would  make  a  person  afeard. 

TRAMP 
Looking  round  with  a  half -shudder. 

It  is  surely,  God  help  us  all! 
13 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

NORA 

Looking  at  him  for  a  moment  with 

curiosity. 

You're  saying  that,  stranger,  as  if  you  were 
easy  afeard. 

TRAMP 

Speaking  mournfully. 

Is  it  myself,  lady  of  the  house,  that  does  be 
walking  round  in  the  long  nights,  and  cross- 
ing the  hills  when  the  fog  is  on  them,  the  time 
a  little  stick  would  seem  as  big  as  your  arm, 
and  a  rabbit  as  big  as  a  bay  horse,  and  a  stack 
of  turf  as  big  as  a  towering  church  in  the  city 
of  Dublin?  If  myself  was  easily  afeard,  I'm 
telling  you,  it's  long  ago  I'ld  have  been  locked 
into  the  Richmond  Asylum,  or  maybe  have  run 
up  into  the  back  hills  with  nothing  on  me  but 
an  old  shirt,  and  been  eaten  with  crows  the  like 
of  Patch  Darcy  —  the  Lord  have  mercy  on 
him  —  in  the  year  that's  gone. 

NORA 

With  interest. 
You  knew  Darcy? 

TRAMP 

Wasn't  I  the  last  one  heard  his  living  voice 
in  the  whole  world? 

14 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

NORA 

There  were  great  stories  of  what  was  heard 
at  that  time,  but  would  any  one  believe  the 
things  they  do  be  saying  in  the  glen? 

TRAMP 

It  was  no  lie,  lady  of  the  house.  ...  I  was 
passing  below  on  a  dark  night  the  like  of  this 
night,  and  the  sheep  were  lying  under  the  ditch 
and  every  one  of  them  coughing,  and  choking, 
like  an  old  man,  with  the  great  rain  and  the 
fog.  Then  I  heard  a  thing  talking  —  queer 
talk,  you  wouldn't  believe  at  all,  and  you  out 
of  your  dreams,  —  and  "  Merciful  God,"  says 
I,  "  if  I  begin  hearing  the  like  of  that  voice 
out  of  the  thick  mist,  I'm  destroyed  surely." 
Then  I  run,  and  I  run,  and  I  run,  till  I  was 
below  in  Rathvanna.  I  got  drunk  that  night, 
I  got  drunk  in  the  morning,  and  drunk  the  day 
after,  —  I  was  coming  from  the  races  beyond 
—  and  the  third  day  they  found  Darcy.  .  .  . 
Then  I  knew  it  was  himself  I  was  after  hear- 
ing, and  I  wasn't  afeard  any  more. 

NORA 

Speaking  sorrowfully  and  slowly. 

God  spare  Darcy,  he'ld  always  look  in  here 
and  he  passing  up  or  passing  down,  and  it's 
15 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

very  lonesome  I  was  after  him  a  long  while 
(she  looks  over  at  the  bed  and  lowers  her  voice, 
speaking  very  clearly,}  and  then  I  got  happy 
again  —  if  it's  ever  happy  we  are,  stranger,  — 
for  I  got  used  to  being  lonesome. 

A  short  pause;   then  she  stands  up. 

NORA 

Was  there  any  one  on  the  last  bit  of  the 
road,  stranger,  and  you  coming  from  Au- 
ghrim  ? 

TRAMP 

There  was  a  young  man  with  a  drift  of 
mountain  ewes,  and  he  running  after  them  this 
way  and  that. 

NORA 

With  a  half-smile. 
Far  down,  stranger? 

TRAMP 
A  piece  only. 

She  fills  the  kettle  and  puts  it  on  the 

fire. 

NORA 

Maybe,  if  you're  not  easy  afeard,  you'ld  stay 

here  a  short  while  alone  with  himself. 
16 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  GLEN 

TRAMP 

I  would  surely.  A  man  that's  dead  can  do 
no  hurt. 

NORA 

Speaking  with  a  sort  of  constraint. 

I'm  going  a  little  back  to  the  west,  stranger, 
for  himself  would  go  there  one  night  and  an- 
other and  whistle  at  that  place,  and  then  the 
young  man  you're  after  seeing  —  a  kind  of  a 
farmer  has  come  up  from  the  sea  to  live  in  a 
cottage  beyond  —  would  walk  round  to  see  if 
there  was  a  thing  we'ld  have  to  be  done,  and 
I'm  wanting  him  this  night,  the  way  he  can 
go  down  into  the  glen  when  the  sun  goes  up 
and  tell  the  people  that  himself  is  dead. 

TRAMP 
Looking  at  the  body  in  the  sheet. 

It's  myself  will  go  for  him,  lady  of  the 
house,  and  let  you  not  be  destroying  yourself 
with  the  great  rain. 

NORA 

You  wouldn't  find  your  way,  stranger,  for 

there's  a  small  path  only,  and  it  running  up 

between   two   sluigs   where   an   ass   and   cart 

would  be  drowned.     (She  puts  a  shawl  over 

17 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

her  head.)  Let  you  be  making  yourself  easy, 
and  saying  a  prayer  for  his  soul,  and  it's  not 
long  I'll  be  coming  again. 

TRAMP 
Moving  uneasily. 

Maybe  if  you'd  a  piece  of  a  grey  thread  and 
a  sharp  needle  —  there's  great  safety  in  a 
needle,  lady  of  the  house  —  Fid  be  putting 
a  little  stitch  here  and  there  in  my  old 
coat,  the  time  I'll  be  praying  for  his  soul,  and 
it  going  up  naked  to  the  saints  of  God. 

NORA 

Takes  a  needle  and  thread  from  the 
front  of  her  dress  and  gives  it  to  him. 

There's  the  needle,  stranger,  and  I'm  think- 
ing you  won't  be  lonesome,  and  you  used  to  the 
back  hills,  for  isn't  a  dead  man  itself  more  com- 
pany than  to  be  sitting  alone,  and  hearing  the 
winds  crying,  and  you  not  knowing  on  what 
thing  your  mind  would  stay? 

TRAMP 

Slowly. 

It's  true,  surely,  and  the  Lord  have  mercy 
on  us  all ! 

Nora  goes  out.     The  Tramp  begins 
18 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

stitching  one  of  the  tags  in  his  coat, 
saying  the  "  De  Profundis  "  under  his 
breath.  In  an  instant  the  sheet  is 
drawn  slowly  down,  and  Dan  Burke 
looks  out.  The  Tramp  moves  un- 
easily, then  looks  up,  and  springs  to 
his  feet  with  a  movement  of  terror. 

DAN 
With  a  hoarse  voice. 

Don't  be  afeard,  stranger ;  a  man  that's  dead 
can  do  no  hurt. 

TRAMP 
Trembling. 

I  meant  no  harm,  your  honour;  and  won't 
you  leave  me  easy  to  be  saying  a  little  prayer 
for  your  soul  ? 

A  long  whistle  is  heard  outside. 

DAN 

Sitting  up  in  his  bed  and  speaking 

fiercely. 

Ah,  the  devil  mend  her.  .  .  .  Do  you  hear 

that,   stranger?     Did  ever  you  hear  another 

woman  could  whistle  the  like  of  that  with  two 

fingers  in  her  mouth?     (He  looks  at  the  table 

19 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

hurriedly.)  I'm  destroyed  with  the  drouth, 
and  let  you  bring  me  a  drop  quickly  before  her- 
self will  come  back. 

TRAMP 

Doubtfully. 
Is  it  not  dead  you  are  ? 

DAN 

How  would  I  be  dead,  and  I  as  dry  as  a 
baked  bone,  stranger  ? 

TRAMP 
Pouring  out  the  whisky. 

What  will  herself  say  if  she  smells  the  stuff 
on  you,  for  I'm  thinking  it's  not  for  nothing 
you're  letting  on  to  be  dead  ? 

DAN 

It  is  not,  stranger,  but  she  won't  be  coming 
near  me  at  all,  and  it's  not  long  now  I'll  be 
letting  on,  for  I've  a  cramp  in  my  back,  and 
my  hip's  asleep  on  me,  and  there's  been  the 
devil's  own  fly  itching  my  nose.  It's  near  dead 
I  was  wanting  to  sneeze,  and  you  blathering 
about  the  rain,  and  Darcy  (bitterly) — the 
devil  choke  him  —  and  the  towering  church. 
(Crying  out  impatiently.)  Give  me  that 
20 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

whisky.     Would  you  have  herself  come  back 
before  I  taste  a  drop  at  all? 

Tramp  gives  him  the  glass. 

DAN 

After  drinking. 

Go  over  now  to  that  cupboard,  and  bring  me 
a  black  stick  you'll  see  in  the  west  corner  by  the 
wall. 

TRAMP 

Taking  a  stick  from  the  cupboard. 
Is  it  that? 

DAN 

It  is,  stranger;  it's  a  long  time  I'm  keeping 
that  stick  for  I've  a  bad  wife  in  the  house. 

TRAMP 
With  a  queer  look. 

Is  it  herself,  master  of  the  house,  and  she  a 
grand  woman  to  talk? 

DAN 

It's  herself,  surely,  it's  a  bad  wife  she  is  —  a 
bad  wife  for  an  old  man,  and  I'm  getting  old, 
God  help  me,  though  I've  an  arm  to  me  still. 
(He  takes  the  stick  in  his  hand.}  Let  you  wait 
now  a  short  while,  and  it's  a  great  sight  you'll 

21 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

see  in  this  room  in  two  hours  or  three.     (He 
stops  to  listen. )     Is  that  somebody  above  ? 

TRAMP 
Listening. 
There's  a  voice  speaking  on  the  path. 

DAN 

Put  that  stick  here  in  the  bed  and  smooth  the 
sheet  the  way  it  was  lying.  (He  covers  him- 
self up  hastily.}  Be  falling  to  sleep  now  and 
don't  let  on  you  know  anything,  or  I'll  be 
having  your  life.  I  wouldn't  have  told  you 
at  all  but  it's  destroyed  with  the  drouth  I  was. 

TRAMP 
Covering  his  head. 

Have  no  fear,  master  of  the  house.  What 
is  it  I  know  of  the  like  of  you  that  Fid  be  say- 
ing a  word  or  putting  out  my  hand  to  stay  you 
at  all? 

He  goes  back  to  the  fire,  sits  down  on 

a  stool  with  his  back  to  the  bed  and 

goes  on  stitching  his  coat. 

DAN 

Under  the  sheet,  querulously. 
Stranger. 

22 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

TRAMP 
Quickly. 

Whisht,  whisht.  Be  quiet  I'm  telling  you, 
they're  coming  now  at  the  door. 

Nora  comes  in  with  Micheal  Dara,  a 
tall,  innocent  young  man  behind  her. 

NORA 

I  wasn't  long  at  all,  stranger,  for  I  met  him- 
self on  the  path. 

TRAMP 
You  were  middling  long,  lady  of  the  house. 

NORA 
There  was  no  sign  from  himself  ? 

TRAMP 
No  sign  at  all,  lady  of  the  house. 

NORA 

To  Micheal. 

Go  over  now  and  pull  down  the  sheet,  and 
look  on  himself,  Micheal  Dara,  and  you'll  see 
it's  the  truth  I'm  telling  you. 

MICHEAL 
I  will  not,  Nora,  I  do  be  afeard  of  the  dead. 

He  sits  down  on  a  stool  next  the  table 
23 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

facing  the  tramp.     Nora  puts  the 
kettle  on  a  lower  hook  of  the  pot- 
hooks, and  piles  turf  under  it. 

NORA 

Turning  to  Tramp. 

Will  you  drink  a  sup  of  tea  with  myself  and 
the  young  man,  stranger,  or  (speaking  more 
persuasively)  will  you  go  into  the  little  room 
and  stretch  yourself  a  short  while  on  the  bed, 
I'm  thinking  it's  destroyed  you  are  walking  the 
length  of  that  way  in  the  great  rain. 

TRAMP 

Is  it  to  go  away  and  leave  you,  and  you 
having  a  wake,  lady  of  the  house  ?  I  will  not 
surely.  (He  takes  a  drink  from  his  glass 
which  he  has  beside  him.)  And  it's  none  of 
your  tea  I'm  asking  either. 

He  goes  on  stitching. 
Nora  makes  the  tea. 

MICHEAL 

After  looking  at   the   tramp  rather 
scornfully  for  a  moment. 

That's  a  poor  coat  you  have,  God  help  you, 
and  I'm  thinking  it's  a  poor  tailor  you  are  with 
it. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  GLEN 

TRAMP 

If  it's  a  poor  tailor  I  am,  I'm  thinking  it's 
a  poor  herd  does  be  running  back  and  forward 
after  a  little  handful  of  ewes  the  way  I  seen 
yourself  running  this  day,  young  fellow,  and 
you  coming  from  the  fair. 

Nora  comes  back  to  the  table. 

NORA 

To  Micheal  in  a  low  voice. 

Let  you  not  mind  him  at  all,  Micheal  Dara, 
he  has  a  drop  taken  and  it's  soon  he'll  be  fall- 
ing asleep. 

MICHEAL 

It's  no  lie  he's  telling,  I  was  destroyed 
surely.  They  were  that  wilful  they  were  run- 
ning off  into  one  man's  bit  of  oats,  and  an- 
other man's  bit  of  hay,  and  tumbling  into  the 
red  bogs  till  it's  more  like  a  pack  of  old  goats 
than  sheep  they  were.  Mountain  ewes  is  a 
queer  breed,  Nora  Burke,  and  I'm  not  used  to 
them  at  all. 

NORA 

Settling  the  tea  things. 

There's  no  one  can  drive  a  mountain  ewe 
but  the  men  do  be  reared  in  the  Glen  Malure, 
I've  heard  them  say,  and  above  by  Rathvanna, 
25 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

and  the  Glen  Imaal,  men  the  like  of  Patch 
Darcy,  God  spare  his  soul,  who  would  walk 
through  five  hundred  sheep  and  miss  one  of 
them,  and  he  not  reckoning  them  at  all. 

MICHEAL 
Uneasily. 

Is  it  the  man  went  queer  in  his  head  the 
year  that's  gone? 

NORA 

It  is  surely. 

TRAMP 
Plaintively. 

That  was  a  great  man,  young  fellow,  a  great 
man  I'm  telling  you.  There  was  never  a  lamb 
from  his  own  ewes  he  wouldn't  know  before 
it  was  marked,  and  he'ld  run  from  this  to 
the  city  of  Dublin  and  never  catch  for  his 
breath. 

NORA 

Turning  round  quickly. 

He  was  a  great  man  surely,  stranger,  and 
isn't  it  a  grand  thing  when  you  hear  a  living 
man  saying  a  good  word  of  a  dead  man,  and 

he  mad  dying? 

26 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

TRAMP 
It's  the  truth  I'm  saying,  God  spare  his  soul. 

He  puts  the  needle  under  the  collar 

of  his  coat,  and  settles  himself  to 

sleep  in  the  chimney-corner. 

Nora  sits  down  at  the  table;    their 

backs  are  turned  to  the  bed. 

MICHEAL 
Looking  at  her  itnth  a  queer  look. 

I  heard  tell  this  day,  Nora  Burke,  that  it 
was  on  the  path  below  Patch  Darcy  would 
be  passing  up  and  passing  down,  and  I  heard 
them  say  he'ld  never  pass  it  night  or  morning 
without  speaking  with  yourself. 

NORA 

In  a  low  voice. 
It  was  no  lie  you  heard,  Micheal  Dara. 

MICHEAL 

I'm  thinking  it's  a  power  of  men  you're 
after  knowing  if  it's  in  a  lonesome  place  you 
live  itself. 

NORA 

Giving  him  his  tea. 

It's  in  a  lonesome  place  you  do  have  to  be 
27 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

talking  with  some  one,  and  looking  for  some 
one,  in  the  evening  of  the  day,  and  if  it's  a 
power  of  men  I'm  after  knowing  they  were 
fine  men,  for  I  was  a  hard  child  to  please,  and 
a  hard  girl  to  please  (she  looks  at  him  a  little 
sternly),  and  it's  a  hard  woman  I  am  to  please 
this  day,  Micheal  Dara,  and  it's  no  lie  I'm  tell- 
ing you. 

MICHEAL 

Looking  over  to  see  that  the  tramp 
is  asleep,  and  then  pointing  to  the 

dead  man. 

Was  it  a  hard  woman  to  please  you  were 
when  you  took  himself  for  your  man  ? 

NORA 

What  way  would  I  live  and  I  an  old  woman 
if  I  didn't  marry  a  man  with  a  bit  of  a 
farm,  and  cows  on  it,  and  sheep  on  the  back 
hills? 

MICHEAL 
Considering. 

That's  true,  Nora,  and  maybe  it's  no  fool 
you  were,  for  there's  good  grazing  on  it,  if 
it  is  a  lonesome  place,  and  I'm  thinking  it's 
a  good  sum  he's  left  behind. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  GLEN 

NORA 

Taking    the    stocking    with    money 
from  her  pocket,  and  putting  it  on 

the  table. 

I  do  be  thinking  in  the  long  nights  it  was  a 
big  fool  I  was  that  time,  Micheal  Dara,  for 
what  good  is  a  bit  of  a  farm  with  cows  on  it, 
and  sheep  on  the  back  hills,  when  you  do  be 
sitting  looking  out  from  a  door  the  like  of  that 
door,  and  seeing  nothing  but  the  mists  rolling 
down  the  bog,  and  the  mists  again,  and  they 
rolling  up  the  bog,  and  hearing  nothing  but 
the  wind  crying  out  in  the  bits  of  broken  trees 
were  left  from  the  great  storm,  and  the 
streams  roaring  with  the  rain. 

MICHEAL 
Looking  at  her  uneasily. 

What  is  it  ails  you,  this  night,  Nora  Burke? 
I've  heard  tell  it's  the  like  of  that  talk  you  do 
hear  from  men,  and  they  after  being  a  great 
while  on  the  back  hills. 

NORA 

Putting  out  the  money  on  the  table. 

It's  a  bad  night,  and  a  wild  night,  Micheal 
Dara,  and  isn't  it  a  great  while  I  am  at  the 
29 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

foot  of  the  back  hills,  sitting  up  here  boiling 
food  for  himself,  and  food  for  the  brood  sow, 
and  baking  a  cake  when  the  night  falls?  (She 
puts  up  the  money,  listlessly,  in  little  piles  on 
the  table.)  Isn't  it  a  long  while  I  am  sitting 
here  in  the  winter  and  the  summer,  and  the  fine 
spring,  with  the  young  growing  behind  me 
and  the  old  passing,  saying  to  myself  one  time, 
to  look  on  Mary  Brien  who  wasn't  that  height 
(holding  out  her  hand),  and  I  a  fine  girl  grow- 
ing up,  and  there  she  is  now  with  two  children, 
and  another  coming  on  her  in  three  months  or 
four. 

She  pauses. 

MICHEAL 
Moving  over  three  of  the  piles. 

That's  three  pounds  we  have  now,   Nora 
Burke. 

NORA 

Continuing  in  the  same  voice. 

And  saying  to  myself  another  time,  to  look 
on  Peggy  Cavanagh,  who  had  the  lightest 
hand  at  milking  a  cow  that  wouldn't  be  easy, 
or  turning  a  cake,  and  there  she  is  now  walk- 
ing round  on  the  roads,  or  sitting  in  a  dirty 
old  house,  with  no  teeth  in  her  mouth,  and  no 
30 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

sense  and  no  more  hair  than  you'ld  see  on  a 
bit  of  a  hill  and  they  after  burning  the  furze 
from  it. 

MICHEAL 

That's  five  pounds  and  ten  notes,  a  good 
sum,  surely!  .  .  .  It's  not  that  way  you'll  be 
talking  when  you  marry  a  young  man,  Nora 
Burke,  and  they  were  saying  in  the  fair  my 
lambs  were  the  best  lambs,  and  I  got  a  grand 
price,  for  I'm  no  .fool  now  at  making  a  bar- 
gain when  my  lambs  are  good. 

NORA 

What  was  it  you  got? 

MICHEAL 

Twenty  pound  for  the  lot,  Nora  Burke.  .  .  . 
We'ld  do  right  to  wait  now  till  himself  will  be 
quiet  awhile  in  the  Seven  Churches,  and  then 
you'll  marry  me  in  the  chapel  of  Rathvanna, 
and  I'll  bring  the  sheep  up  on  the  bit  of  a  hill 
you  have  on  the  back  mountain,  and  we  won't 
have  anything  we'ld  be  afeard  to  let  our  minds 
on  when  the  mist  is  down. 

NORA 

Pouring  him  out  some  whisky. 

Why    would    I    marry    you,    Mike    Dara? 
31 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

You'll  be  getting  old  and  I'll  be  getting  old, 
and  in  a  little  while  I'm  telling  you,  you'll  be 
sitting  up  in  your  bed  —  the  way  himself  was 
sitting  —  with  a  shake  in  your  face,  and  your 
teeth  falling,  and  the  white  hair  sticking  out 
round  you  like  an  old  bush  where  sheep  do  be 
leaping  a  gap. 

Dan  Burke  sits  up  noiselessly  from 

under  the  sheet,  with  his  hand  to  his 

face.    His  white  hair  is  sticking  out 

round  his  head. 

NORA 

Goes  on  slowly  without  hearing  him. 

It's  a  pitiful  thing  to  be  getting  old,  but  it's 
a  queer  thing  surely.  It's  a  queer  thing  to  see 
an  old  man  sitting  up  there  in  his  bed  with  no 
teeth  in  him,  and  a  rough  word  in  his  mouth, 
and  his  chin  the  way  it  would  take  the  bark 
from  the  edge  of  an  oak  board  you'ld  have 
building  a  door.  .  .  .  God  forgive  me, 
Micheal  Dara,  we'll  all  be  getting  old,  but 
it's  a  queer  thing  surely. 

MICHEAL 

It's  too  lonesome  you  are  from  living  a  long 
time  with  an  old  man,  Nora,  and  you're  talk- 
ing again  like  a  herd  that  would  be  coming 
33 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

down  from  the  thick  mist  (he  puts  his  arm 
round  her),  but  it's  a  fine  life  you'll  have  now 
with  a  young  man,  a  fine  life  surely.  .  .  . 

Dan  sneezes  violently.  Micheal  tries 
to  get  to  the  door,  but  before  he  can 
do  so,  Dan  jumps  out  of  the  bed  in 
queer  white  clothes,  with  his  stick  in 
his  hand,  and  goes  over  and  puts  his 
back  against  it. 

MICHEAL 
Son  of  God  deliver  us. 

Crosses  himself,  and  goes  backward 
across  the  room. 

DAN 
Holding  up  his  hand  at  him. 

Now  you'll  not  marry  her  the  time  I'm  rot- 
ting below  in  the  Seven  Churches,  and  you'll 
see  the  thing  I'll  give  you  will  follow  you 
on  the  back  mountains  when  the  wind  is 
high. 

MICHEAL 
To  Nora. 

Get  me  out  of  it,  Nora,  for  the  love  of  God. 
He  always  did  what  you  bid  him,  and  I'm 
thinking  he  would  do  it  now. 
33 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

NORA 

Looking  at  the  Tramp. 
Is  it  dead  he  is  or  living? 

DAN 
Turning  towards  her. 

It's  little  you  care  if  it's  dead  or  living  I  am, 
but  there'll  be  an  end  now  of  your  fine  times, 
and  all  the  talk  you  have  of  young  men  and 
old  men,  and  of  the  mist  coming  up  or  going 
down.  (He  opens  the  door.)  You'll  walk  out 
now  from  that  door,  Nora  Burke,  and  it's  not 
to-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  any  day  of 
your  life,  that  you'll  put  in  your  foot  through 
it  again. 

TRAMP 
Standing  up. 

It's  a  hard  thing  you're  saying  for  an  old 
man,  master  of  the  house,  and  what  would  the 
like  of  her  do  if  you  put  her  out  on  the  roads? 

DAN 

Let  her  walk  round  the  like  of  Peggy 
Cavanagh  below,  and  be  begging  money  at  the 
cross-road,  or  selling  songs  to  the  men.  (To 
Nora.)  Walk  out  now,  Nora  Burke,  and  it's 
soon  you'll  be  getting  old  with  that  life,  I'm 
34 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

telling  you;  it's  soon  your  teeth'll  be  falling 
and  your  head'll  be  the  like  of  a  bush  where 
sheep  do  be  leaping  a  gap. 

He    pauses:     she    looks    round    at 

Micheal. 

MICHEAL 

Timidly. 
There's  a  fine  Union  below  in  Rathdrum. 

DAN 

The  like  of  her  would  never  go  there.  .  .  . 
It's  lonesome  roads  she'll  be  going  and  hiding 
herself  away  till  the  end  will  come,  and  they 
find  her  stretched  like  a  dead  sheep  with  the 
frost  on  her,  or  the  big  spiders,  maybe,  and 
they  putting  their  webs  on  her,  in  the  butt  of 
a  ditch. 

NORA 

Angrily. 

What  way  will  yourself  be  that  day,  Daniel 
Burke?  What  way  will  you  be  that  day  and 
you  lying  down  a  long  while  in  your  grave? 
For  it's  bad  you  are  living,  and  it's  bad  you'll 
be  when  you're  dead.  (She  looks  at  hint  a 
moment  fiercely,  then  half  turns  away  and 
speaks  plaintively  again.}  Yet,  if  it  is  itself, 

35 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

Daniel  Burke,  who  can  help  it  at  all,  and  let 
you  be  getting  up  into  your  bed,  and  not  be 
taking  your  death  with  the  wind  blowing  on 
you,  and  the  rain  with  it,  and  you  half  in  your 
skin. 

DAN 

It's  proud  and  happy  you'ld  be  if  I  was  get- 
ting my  death  the  day  I  was  shut  of  yourself. 
(Pointing  to  the  door.)  Let  you  walk  out 
through  that  door,  I'm  telling  you,  and  let  you 
not  be  passing  this  way  if  it's  hungry  you  are, 
or  wanting  a  bed. 

TRAMP 

Pointing  to  Micheal. 
Maybe  himself  would  take  her. 

NORA 

What  would  he  do  with  me  now? 

TRAMP 

Give  you  the  half  of  a  dry  bed,  and  good 
food  in  your  mouth. 

DAN 

Is  it  a  fool  you  think  him,  stranger,  or  is  it 
a  fool  you  were  born  yourself?    Let  her  walk 
out  of  that  door,  and  let  you  go  along  with 
36 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

her,  stranger  —  if  it's  raining  itself  —  for  it's 
too  much  talk  you  have  surely. 

TRAMP 
Going  over  to  Nora. 

We'll  be  going  now,  lady  of  the  house  —  the 
rain  is  falling,  but  the  air  is  kind  and  maybe 
it'll  be  a  grand  morning  by  the  grace  of  God. 

NORA 

What  good  is  a  grand  morning  when  I'm 
destroyed  surely,  and  I  going  out  to  get  my 
death  walking  the  roads  ? 

TRAMP 

You'll  not  be  getting  your  death  with  my- 
self, lady  of  the  house,  and  I  knowing  all  the 
ways  a  man  can  put  food  in  his  mouth.  .  .  . 
We'll  be  going  now,  I'm  telling  you,  and  the 
time  you'll  be  feeling  the  cold,  and  the  frost, 
and  the  great  rain,  and  the  sun  again,  and  the 
south  wind  blowing  in  the  glens,  you'll  not  be 
sitting  up  on  a  wet  ditch,  the  way  you're  after 
sitting  in  the  place,  making  yourself  old  with 
looking  on  each  day,  and  it  passing  you  by. 
You'll  be  saying  one  time,  "  It's  a  grand 
evening,  by  the  grace  of  God,"  and  another 
time,  "  It's  a  wild  night,  God  help  us,  but  it'll 
pass  surely."  You'll  be  saying  — 
37 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  GLEN 

DAN 

Goes  over  to  them  crying  out  impa- 
tiently. 

Go  out  of  that  door,  I'm  telling  you,  and  do 
your  blathering  below  in  the  glen. 

Nora  gathers  a  few  things  into  her 

shawl. 

TRAMP 
At  the  door. 

Come  along  with  me  now,  lady  of  the  house, 
and  it's  not  my  blather  you'll  be  hearing  only, 
but  you'll  be  hearing  the  herons  crying  out  over 
the  black  lakes,  and  you'll  be  hearing  the  grouse 
and  the  owls  with  them,  and  the  larks  and  the 
big  thrushes  when  the  days  are  warm,  and  it's 
not  from  the  like  of  them  you'll  be  hearing  a 
talk  of  getting  old  like  Peggy  Cavanagh,  and 
losing  the  hair  off  you,  and  the  light  of  your 
eyes,  but  it's  fine  songs  you'll  be  hearing  when 
the  sun  goes  up,  and  there'll  be  no  old  fellow 
wheezing,  the  like  of  a  sick  sheep,  close  to  your 
ear. 

NORA 

I'm  thinking  it's  myself  will  be  wheezing 
that  time  with  lying  down  under  the  Heavens 
when  the  night  is  cold;   but  you've  a  fine  bit 
38 


THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN 

of  talk,  stranger,  and  it's  with  yourself  I'll  go. 
(She  goes  towards  the  door,  then  turns  to 
Dan.)  You  think  it's  a  grand  thing  you're 
after  doing  with  your  letting  on  to  be  dead, 
but  what  is  it  at  all?  What  way  would  a 
woman  live  in  a  lonesome  place  the  like  of  this 
place,  and  she  not  making  a  talk  with  the  men 
passing?  And  what  way  will  yourself  live 
from  this  day,  with  none  to  care  for  you? 
What  is  it  you'll  have  now  but  a  black  life, 
Daniel  Burke,  and  it's  not  long  I'm  telling  you, 
till  you'll  be  lying  again  under  that  sheet,  and 
you  dead  surely. 

She    goes    out    with    the    Tramp. 

Micheal  is  slinking  after  them,  but 

Dan  stops  him. 

DAN 

Sit  down  now  and  take  a  little  taste  of  the 
stuff,  Micheal  Dara.  There's  a  great  drouth 
on  me,  and  the  night  is  young. 

MICHEAL 
Coming  back  to  the  table. 

And  it's  very  dry  I  am,  surely,  with  the 
fear  of  death  you  put  on  me,  and  I  after 
driving  mountain  ewes  since  the  turn  of  the 
day. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  GLEN 
DAN 

Throwing  away  his  stick. 

I  was  thinking  to  strike  you,  Micheal  Dara, 
but  you're  a  quiet  man,  God  help  you,  and  I 
don't  mind  you  at  all. 

He  pours  out  two  glasses  of  whisky, 
and  gives  one  to  Micheal. 

DAN 

Your  good  health,  Micheal  Dara. 
MICHEAL 

God  reward  you,  Daniel  Burke,  and  may  you 
have  a  long  life,  and  a  quiet  life,  and  good 
health  with  it. 

They  drink. 

CURTAIN. 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 


INTRODUCTION 


It  must  have  been  on  Synge's  second  visit  to 
the  Aran  Islands  that  he  had  the  experience 
out  of  which  was  wrought  what  many  believe 
to  be  his  greatest  play.  The  scene  of  "Riders 
to  the  Sea"  is  laid  in  a  cottage  on  Inishmaan, 
the  middle  and  most  interesting  island  of  the 
Aran  group.  While  Synge  was  on  Inishmaan, 
the  story  came  to  him  of  a  man  whose  body 
had  been  washed  up  on  the  far  away  coast  of 
Donegal,  and  who,  by  reason  of  certain  pecu- 
liarities of  dress,  was  suspected  to  be  from  the 
island.  In  due  course,  he  was  recognised  as 
a  native  of  Inishmaan,  in  exactly  the  manner 
described  in  the  play,  and  perhaps  one  of  the 
most  poignantly  vivid  passages  in  Synge's  book 
on  "The  Aran  Islands"  relates  the  incident  of 
his  burial. 

The  other  element  in  the  story  which  Synge 

introduces  into  the  play  is  equally  true.    Many 

tales  of  "second  sight"  are  to  be  heard  among 

Celtic  races.     In  fact,  they  are  so  common  as 

VII 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

to  arouse  little  or  no  wonder  in  the  minds  of 
the  people.  It  is  just  such  a  tale,  which  there 
seems  no  valid  reason  for  doubting,  that  Synge 
heard,  and  that  gave  the  title,  "Riders  to  the 
Sea",  to  his  play. 

It  is  the  dramatist's  high  distinction  that  he 
has  simply  taken  the  materials  which  lay  ready 
to  his  hand,  and  by  the  power  of  sympathy 
woven  them,  with  little  modification,  into  a 
tragedy  which,  for  dramatic  irony  and  noble 
pity,  has  no  equal  among  its  contemporaries. 

Great  tragedy,  it  is  frequently  claimed  with 
some  show  of  justice,  has  perforce  departed 
with  the  advance  of  modern  life  and  its  com- 
plicated tangle  of  interests  and  creature  com- 
forts. A  highly  developed  civilisation,  with 
its  attendant  specialisation  of  culture,  tends 
ever  to  lose  sight  of  those  elemental  forces, 
those  primal  emotions,  naked  to  wind  and  sky, 
which  are  the  stuff  from  which  great  drama  is 
wrought  by  the  artist,  but  which,  as  it  would 
seem,  are  rapidly  departing  from  us. 

It  is  only  in  the  far  places,  where  solitary 
communion  may  be  had  with  the  elements,  that 
this  dynamic  life  is  still  to  be  found  continu- 
VIII 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

ously,  and  it  is  accordingly  thither  that  the 
dramatist,  who  would  deal  with  spiritual  life 
disengaged  from  the  environment  of  an  intel- 
lectual maze,  must  go  for  that  experience  which 
will  beget  in  him  inspiration  for  his  art. 

The  Aran  Islands  from  which  Synge  gained 
his  inspiration  are  rapidly  losing  that  sense  of 
isolation  and  self-dependence,  which  has  hith- 
erto been  their  rare  distinction,  and  which 
furnished  the  motivation  for  Synge's  master- 
piece. Whether  or  not  Synge  finds  a  successor, 
it  is  none  the  less  true  that  in  English  dramatic 
literature  "Riders  to  the  Sea"  has  an  historic 
value  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  over- 
estimate in  its  accomplishment  and  its  possi- 
bilities. A  writer  in  The  Manchester  Guardian 
shortly  after  Synge's  death  phrased  it  rightly 
when  he  wrote  that  it  is  "the  tragic  master- 
piece of  our  language  in  our  time;  wherever 
it  has  been  played  in  Europe  from  Galway  to 
Prague,  it  has  made  the  word  tragedy  mean 
something  more  profoundly  stirring  and 
cleansing  to  the  spirit  than  it  did." 

The  secret  of  the  play's  power  is  its  capacity 
for  standing  afar  off,  and  mingling,  if  we  may 
IX 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

say  so,  sympathy  with  relentlessness.  There 
is  a  wonderful  beauty  of  speech  in  the  words 
of  every  character,  wherein  the  latent  power 
of  suggestion  is  almost  unlimited.  "In  the 
big  world  the  old  people  do  be  leaving  things 
after  them  for  their  sons  and  children,  but  in 
this  place  it  is  the  young  men  do  be  leaving 
things  behind  for  them  that  do  be  old."  In 
the  quavering  rhythm  of  these  words,  there 
is  poignantly  present  that  quality  of  strange- 
ness and  remoteness  in  beauty  which,  as  we 
are  coming  to  realise,  is  the  touchstone  of 
Celtic  literary  art  However,  the  very  ascet- 
icism of  the  play  has  begotten  a  corresponding 
power  which  lifts  Synge's  work  far  out  of  the 
current  of  the  Irish  literary  revival,  and  sets 
it  high  in  a  timeless  atmosphere  of  universal 
action. 

Its  characters  live  —  and  die.  It  is  their 
virtue  in  life  to  be  lonely,  and  none  but  the 
lonely  man  in  tragedy  may  be  great.  He  dies, 
and  then  it  is  the  virtue  in  life  of  the  women 
—  mothers  and  wives  and  sisters  —  to  be 
great  in  their  loneliness,  great  as  Maurya,  the 
stricken  mother,  is  great  in  her  final  word. 
X 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

"  Michael  has  a  clean  burial  in  the  far  north, 
by  the  grace  of  the  Almighty  God.  Bartley 
will  have  a  fine  coffin  out  of  the  white  boards, 
and  a  deep  grave  surely.  What  more  can  we 
want  than  that?  No  man  at  all  can  be  living 
for  ever,  and  we  must  be  satisfied." 

The  pity  and  the  terror  of  it  all  have 
brought  a  great  peace,  the  peace  that  passeth 
understanding,  and  it  is  because  the  play  holds 
this  timeless  peace  after  the  storm  which  has 
bowed  down  every  character,  that  "  Riders  to 
the  Sea ''  may  rightly  take  its  place  as  the 
greatest  modern  tragedy  in  the  English 

tongue. 

EDWARD  J.  O'BRIEN. 

February  23,  1911. 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 
A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 

First    performed    at    the    Molesivorth    Hall, 
Dublin,  February  2$th,   1904. 

PERSONS 

MAURYA  (an  old  woman}  .  Honor  Lavelle 
BARTLEY  (her  son}  .  .  .  W.  G.  Fay 
CATHLEEN  (her  daughter}  Sarah  Allgood 
NORA  (a  younger  daughter}  Emma  Vernon 
MEN  AND  WOMEN 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 
A  PLAY  IN   ONE  ACT 

First    performed    at    the    Molesworth    Hall, 
Dublin,  February  2$th,  1904. 

SCENE. —  An  Island  off  the  West  of  Ireland. 
(Cottage  kitchen,  with  nets,  oil-skins,  spin- 

^^^MiMMnMHVMMHim 

ning  wheel^some  new  boards  standing  by  the 
wall,  etc.  Cathleen,  a  girl  of  about  twenty, 
finishes  kneading  cake,  and  puts  it  down  in  the 
pot-oven  by  the  fire;  then  wipes  her  hands, 
and  begins  to  spin  at  the  zvheel.  Nora,  a  young 
girl,  puts  her  head  in  at  the  door.) 

NORA 

In  a  low  voice. 
Where  is  she? 

CATHLEEN 

She's  lying  down,  God  help  her,  and  may  be 
sleeping,  if  she's  able. 

17 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

Nora  comes  in  softly,  and  takes  a 
bundle  from  under  her  shawl. 

CATHLEEN 

Spinning  the  wheel  rapidly. 
What  is  it  you  have? 

NORA 

The  young  priest  is  after  bringing  them. 
It's  a  shirt  and  a  plain  stocking  were  got  off 
a  drowned  man  in  Donegal. 

Cathleen   stops    her   wheel   with    a 
sudden  movement,  and  leans  out  to 

listen. 

NORA 

We're  to  find  out  if  it's  Michael's  they  are, 
some  time  herself  will  be  down  looking  by  the 
sea. 

CATHLEEN 

How  would  they  be  Michael's,  Nora.  How 
would  he  go  the  length  of  that  way  to  the  far 
north  ? 

NORA 

The  young  priest  says  he's  known  the  like 

of  it.     "  If  it's  Michael's  they  are,"  says  he. 

"  you  can  tell  herself  he's  got  a  clean  burial 

by  the  grace  of  God,  and  if  they're  not  his, 

18 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

let  no  one  say  a  word  about  them,  for  she'll 
be  getting  her  death,"  says  he,  "  with  crying 
and  lamenting." 

The  door  which  Nora  half  closed  is 
blown  open  by  a  gust  of  wind. 

CATHLEEN 
Looking  out  anxiously. 

Did  you  ask  him  would  he  stop  Bartley 
going  this  day  with  the  horses  to  the  Galway 
fair? 

NORA 

"  I  won't  stop  him,"  says  he,  "  but  let  you 
not  be  afraid.  Herself  does  be  saying  prayers 
half  through  the  night,  and  the  Almighty  God 
won't  leave  her  destitute,"  says  he,  "  with  no 
son  living." 

CATHLEEN 

Is  the  sea  bad  by  the  white  rocks,  Nora? 

NORA 

Middling  bad,  God  help  us.  There's  a  great 
roaring  in  the  west,  and  it's  worse  it'll  be 
getting  when  the  tide's  turned  to  the  wind. 

She  goes  over  to  the  table  with  the 

bundle. 

Shall  I  open  it  now? 
19 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 
CATHLEEN 

Maybe  she'd  wake  up  on  us,  and  come  in 
before  we'd  done. 

Coming  to  the  table. 

It's  a  long  time  we'll  be,  and  the  two  of  us 
crying. 

NORA 

door  and  listens. 


She's  moving  about  on  the  bed.  She'll  be 
coming  in  a  minute. 

CATHLEEN 

Give  me  the  ladder,  and  I'll  put  them  up 
in  the  turf-loft,  the  way  she  won't  know  of 
them  at  all,  and  maybe  when  the  tide  turns 
she'll  be  going  down  to  see  would  he  be  float- 
ing from  the  east. 

They  put  the  ladder  against  the  gable 
ofthe  chiinnev:  Cathleen  goes  up  a 
few  steps  and  hides  the  bundle  in 
the  turf-loft.  Maurya  comes  from 

the  inner  room.  I  , 

MAURYA 

Looking  up  at  Cathleen  and  speak- 
ing querulously. 

20 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

Isn't  it  turf  enough  you  have  for  this  day 
and  evening? 

CATHLEEN 

There's  a  cake  baking  at  the  fire  for  a  short 
space 

Throwing  down  the  turf 
and  Bartley  will  want  it  when  the  tide  turns 
if  he  goes  to  Connemara. 

Nora  picks  up  the  turf  and  puts  it 
round  the  pot-oven. 

MAURYA 
Sitting  down  on  a  stool  at  the  fire. 

He  won't  go  this  day  with  the  wind 
rising  from  the  south  and  west.  He  won't 
go  this  day,  for  the  young  priest  will  stop  him 
surely. 

NORA 

He'll  not  stop  him,  mother,  and  I  heard 
Eamon  Simon  and  Stephen  Pheety  and  Colum 
Shawn  saying  lie  would  go. 

MAURYA 
Where  is  he  itself? 

NORA 
He  went  down  to  see  would  there  be  another 

21 


QT« 
RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

boat  sailing  in  the  week,  and  I'm  thinking  it 
won't  be  long  till  he's  here  now,  for  the  tide's 
turning  at  the  green  head,  and  the  hooker's 
tacking  from  the  east. 

CATHLEEN 
I  hear  some  one  passing  the  big  stones. 

NORA 

Looking  out. 
He's  coming  now,  and  he  in  a  hurry. 

BARTLEY 

Comes  in  and  looks  round  the  room. 
Speaking  sadly  and  quietly. 

Where  is  the  bit  of  new  rope,  Cathleen,  was 
bought  in  Connemara? 

CATHLEEN 
Coming  down. 

Give  it  to  him,  Nora;  it's  on  a  nail  by  the 
white  boards.  I  hung  it  up  this  morning,  for 
the  pig  with  the  black  feet  was  eating  it. 

NORA 

Giving  him  a  rope. 
Is  that  it,  Bartley? 

MAURYA 
You'd  do  right  to  leave  thef  rope,  Bartley, 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

hanging  by  the  boards  (Bartley  takes  the 
rope}.  It  will  be  wanting  in  this  place,  I'm 
telling  you,  if  Michael  is  washed  up  to- 
morrow morning,  or  the  next  morning,  or  any 
morning  in  the  week,  for  it's  a  deep  grave 
we'll  make  him  by  the  grace  of  God. 

BARTLEY 
Beginning  to  work  with  the  rope. 

I've  no  halter  the  way  I  can  ride  down  on 
the  mare,  and  I  must  go  now  quickly.  This 
is  the  one  boat  going  for  two  weeks  or  beyond 
it,  and  the  fair  will  be  a  good  fair  for  horses 
I  heard  them  saying  below. 

MAURYA 

It's  a  hard  thing  they'll  be  saying  below  if 
the  body  is  washed  up  and  there's  no  man 
in  it  to  make  the  coffin,  and  I  after  giving  a 
big  price  for  the  finest  white  boards  you'd 
find  in  Connemara. 

She  looks  round  at  the\boards. 

s 

BARTLEY 

How  would  it  be  washed  up,  and  we  after 
looking  each  day  for  nine  days,  and  a  strong 
wind  blowing  a  while  back  from  the  west  and 
south  ? 

03 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

MAURYA 

If  it  wasn't  found  itself,  that  wind  is 
raising  the  sea,  and  there  was  a  star  up  against 
the  moon,  and  it  rising  in  the  night.  If  it 
was^  a  hundred  horses,  or  a  thousand  horses 
you  had  itself,  what  is  the  price  of  a  thousand 
horses  against  a  son  where  there  is  one  son 
pjily? 

BARTLEY 

Workingjit  the  halter,  to  Cathleen. 

Let  you  go  down  each  day,  and  see  the 
sheep  aren't  jumping  in  on  the  rye,  and  if  the 
jobber  comes  you  can  sell  the  pig  with  the 
black  feet  if  there  is  a  good  price  going. 

MAURYA 

How  would  the  like  of  her  get  a  good 
price  for  a  pig? 

BARTLEY 
To  Cathleen. 

If  the  west  wind  holds  with  the  last  bit  of 
^>  the   moon   let   you   and    Nora   get   up   weed 

V  \* 

enough  for  another  cock  for  the  kelp.  It's 
hard  set  we'll  be  from  this  day  with  no  one 
in  it  but  one  man  to  work. 

MAURYA 

It's  hard  set  we'll  be  surely  the  day  you're 
24 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

drownd'd  with  the  rest.  What  way  will  I 
live  and  the  girls  with  me,  and  I  an  old 
woman  looking  for  the  grave? 

Bartley  lays  down  the  halter,  takes 

off  his  old  coat,  and  puts  on  a  newer 

one  of  the  same  flannel. 

BARTLEY 
To  Nora. 
Is  she  coming  to  the  pier? 

NORA 

Looking  out. 

She's  passing  the  green  head  and  letting 
fall  her  sails. 

BARTLEY 
Getting  his  purse  and  tobacco. 

I'll  have  half  an  hour  to  go  down,  and  you'll 
see  me  coming  again  in  two  days,  or  in  three 
days,  or  maybe  in  four  days  if  the  wind  is 
bad. 

MAURYA 

Turning  round  to  the  fire,  and  put- 
ing  her  shawl  over  her  head. 

Isn't  it  a  hard  and  cruel  man  won't  hear 
a  word  from  an  old  woman,  and  she  holding 
him  from  the  sea? 

25 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 
CATHLEEN 

It's  the  life  of  a  young  man  to  be  going  on 
the  sea,  and  who  would  listen  to  an  old  woman 
with  one  thing  and  she  saying  it  over? 

BARTLEY 
Taking  the  halter. 

I  must  go  now  quickly.  I'll  ride  down  on 
the  red  mare,  and  the  gray  pony  '11  run  behind 
me.  .  .  The  blessing  of  God  on  you. 

He  goes  out. 

MAURYA 
~~Crying  out  as  he  is  in  the  door. 

He's  gone  now,  God  spare  us,  and  we'll  not 
see  him  again.  He's  gone  now,  and  when  the 
black  night  is  falling  I'll  have  no  son  left  me 
in  the  world. 

CATHLEEN 

Why  wouldn't  you  give  him  your  blessing 
and  he  looking  round  in  the  door?  Isn't  it 
sorrow  enough  is  on  every  one  in  this  house 
without  your  sending  him  out  with  an  unlucky 
word  behind  him,  and  a  hard  word  in  his  ear? 

Maurya    takes    up    the    tongs    and 
begins  raking  the  fire  aimlessly  with- 
out looking  round. 
26 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 
NORA 

Turning  towards  her. 

You're  taking  away  the  turf   from  the 
cake. 

CATHLEEN 

Crying  out. 

The  Son  of  God  forgive  us,  Nora,  we're 
after  forgetting  his  bit  of  bread. 

She  comes  over  to  the  fire. 
^~~~-^~~ 

NORA 

And  it's  destroyed  he'll  be  going  till  dark 
night,  and  he  after  eating  nothing  since  the 
sun  went  up. 

CATHLEEN 

Turning  the  cake  out  of  the  oven. 

It's  destroyed  he'll  be,  surely.  There's  no 
sense  left  on  any  person  in  a  house  where  an 
old  woman  will  be  talking  for  ever. 

Maurya  sways  herself  on  her  stool. 

CATHLEEN 

Cutting  off  some  of  the  bread  and 
rolling  it  in  a  cloth;  to  Maurya. 

Let  you  go  down  now  to  the  spring  well 
and  give  him  this  and  he  passing.    You'll  see 
27 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

him  then  and  the  dark  word  will  be  broken, 
and  you  can  say  "  God  speed  you,"  the  way 
he'll  be  easy  in  his  mind. 

MAURYA 

Taking  the  bread. 
Will  I  be  in  it  as  soon  as  himself? 

CATHLEEN 
If  you  go  now  quickly. 

MAURYA 

Standing  up  unsteadily. 
It's  hard  set  I  am  to  walk. 
CATHLEEN 
Looking  at  her  anxiously. 

Give  her  the  stick,  Nora,  or  maybe  she'll 
slip  on  the  big  stones. 

NORA 

What  stick? 

CATHLEEN 
The  stick  Michael  brought  from  Connemara. 

MAURYA 

Taking  a  stick  Nora  gives  her. 
In   the    big   world    the   old   people   do   be 
leaving  things  after  them  for  their  sons  and 
28 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

children,  but  in  this  place  it  is  the  young  men 
do  be  leaving  things  behind  for  them  that  do 
be  old. 

She  goes  out  slowly. 

Nora  goes  over  to  the  ladder. 

CATHLEEN 

Wait,  Nora,  maybe  she'd  turn  back  quickly. 
She's  that  sorry,  God  help  her,  you  wouldn't 
know  the  thing  she'd  do. 

NORA 

Is  she  gone  round  by  the  bush? 

CATHLEEN 
Looking  out. 

She's  gone  now.    Throw  it  down  quickly, 
for  the  Lord  knows  when  she'll  be  out  of  it 

again. 

NORA 

Getting  the  bundle  from  the  loft. 

The  young  priest  said  he'd  be  passing  to- 
morrow, and  we  might  go  down  and  speak 
to  him  below  if  it's  Michael's  they  are  surely. 

CATHLEEN 

Taking  the  bundle. 

Did  he  say  what  way  they  were  found? 
29 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

NORA 

Coming  down. 

"  There  were  two  men,"  says  he,  "  and  they 
rowing  round  with  poteen  before  the  cocks 
crowed,  and  the  oar  of  one  of  them  caught  the 
body,  and  they  passing  the  black  cliffs  of  the 
north." 

CATHLEEN 

Trying  to  open  the  bundle. 

Give  me  a  knife,  Nora,  the  string's  perished 
with  the  salt  water,  and  there's  a  black  knot 
on  it  you  wouldn't  loosen  in  a  week. 

NORA 

Giving  her  a  knife. 
I've  heard  tell  it  was  a  long  way  to  Donegal. 

CATHLEEN 
Cutting  the  string. 

It  is  surely.  There  was  a  man  in  here  a 
while  ago  —  the  man  sold  us  that  knife  — 
and  he  said  if  you  set  off  walking  from  the 
rocks  beyond,  it  would  be  seven  days  you'd 
be  in  Donegal. 

NORA 

And  what  time  would  a  man  take,  and  he 
floating? 

30 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

Cathleen  opens  the  bundle  and  takes 

out  a  bit  of  a  stocking.     They  look 

at  them  eagerly. 

CATHLEEN 
In  a  loiv  voice. 

The  Lord  spare  us,  Nora!  isn't  it  a  queer 
hard  thing  to  say  if  it's  his  they  are  surely? 

NORA 

I'll  get  his  shirt  off  the  hook  the  way  we 
can  put  the  one  flannel  on  the  other  ^she 
looks  through  some  clothes  hanging  in  the 
corner^ It's  not  with  tnern,  Cathleen,  and 
where  will  it  be? 

CATHLEEN 

I'm  thinking  Hartley  put  it  on  him  in  the 
morning,  for  his  own  shirt  was  heavy  with 
the  salt  in  it  (pointing  to  the  corner} .  There's 
a  bit  of  a  sleeve  was  of  the  same  stuff.  Give 
me  that  and  it  will  do. 

Nora  brings  it  to  her  and  they  com- 
pare the  flannel. 

CATHLEEN 

It's  the  same  stuff,  Nora;  but  if  it  is  itself 

aren't  there  great  rolls  of  it  in  the  shops  of 

Galway,  and  isn't  it  many  another  man  may 

have  a  shirt  of  it  as  well  as  Michael  himself? 

31 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

NORA 

Who  has  taken  up  the  stocking  and 
counted  the  stitches,  crying  out. 

It's  Michael,  Cathleen,  it's  Michael;  God 
spare  his  soul,  and  what  will  herself  say  when 
she  hears  this  story,  and  Bartley  on  the  sea? 

CATHLEEN 
Taking  the  stocking. 
It's  a  plain  stocking. 

NORA 

It's  the  second  one  of  the  third  pair  I 
knitted,  and  I  put  up  three  score  stitches,  and 
I  dropped  four  of  them. 

CATHLEEN 
Counts  the  stitches. 

It's  that  number  is  in  it  (crying  out.) 
Ah,  Nora,  isn't  it  a  bitter  thing  to  think  of 
him  floating  that  way  to  the  far  north,  and 
no  one  toj^een  him  but  the  black  hags  that  do 
be  flying  on  the  sea? 

NORA 

Swinging  herself  round,  and  throw- 
ing out  her  arms  on  the  clothes. 

And  isn't  it  a  pitiful  thing  when  there  is 
3* 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

nothing  left  of  a  man  who  was  a  great  rower 
and  fisher,  but  a  bit  of  an  old  shirt  and  a  plain 
stocking  ? 

CATHLEEN 
After  an  instant. 

Tell  me  is  herself  coming,  Nora?  I  hear 
a  little  sound  on  the  path. 

NORA 

Looking  out. 

She  is,  Cathleen.  She's  coming  up  to  the 
door. 

CATHLEEN 

Put  these  things  away  before  she'll  come 
in.  Maybe  it's  easier  she'll  be  after  giving 
her  blessing  to  Bartley,  and  we  won't  let  on 
we've  heard  anything  the  time  he's  on  the  sea. 

NORA 

Helping  Cathleen  to  close  the  bundle. 

\ 
We'll  put  them  here  in  the  corner. 

They  put  them  into  a  hole  in  the 

chimney  corner.    Cathleen  goes  back 

to  the  spinning-wheel. 

NORA 

Will  she  see  it  was  crying  I  was? 
33 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 
CATHLEEN 

Keep  your  back  to  the  door  the  way  the 
light'll  not  be  on  you. 

Nora  sits  down  at  the  chimney 
corner,  with  her  back  to  the  door. 
Maurya  comes  in  very  slowly,  with- 
out looking  at  the  girls,  and_j£oes 
over  to  her  stool  at  the  other  side  of 
of  the  fire.  The  cloth  with  the  bread 
is  still  in  her  hand.  The  girls  look 
at  each  other,  and  Nora  points  to 
the  bundle  of  bread. 

CATHLEEN 

After  spinning  for  a  moment. 
You  didn't  give  him  his  bit  of  bread? 

Maurya  begins  to  keen  softly,  with- 
out turning  round. 

CATHLEEN 

Did  you  see  him  riding  down? 
Maurya  goes  on  keening. 

CATHLEEN 
A  little  impatiently. 

God  forgive  you;  isn't  it  a  better  thing  to 
raise  your  voice  and  tell  what  you  seen,  than 
to  be  making  lamentation  for  a  thing  that's 
34 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

done?     Did  you  see  Bartley,  I'm  saying  to 
you. 

MAURYA 
With  a  weak  voice. 
My  heart's  broken  from  this  day. 

CATHLEEN 
As  before. 
Did  you  see  Bartley? 

MAURYA 
I  seen  the  fearfulest  thing. 

CATHLEEN 
Leaves  her  wheel  and  looks  out. 

God  forgive  you;  he's  riding  the  mare  now 
over  the  green  head,  and  the  gray  pony  behind 
him. 

MAURYA 

Starts,  so  that  her  shawl  falls  back 
from  her  head  and  shows  her  white 
tossed  hair.  With  a  frightened  voice. 

The  gray  pony  behind  him. 

CATHLEEN 
Coming  to  the  fire. 
What  is  it  ails  you,  at  all? 
35 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

MAURYA 

Speaking  -very  slowly. 

I've  seen  the   fearfulest  thing  any  person 
\j   has  seen,  since  the  day  Bride  Dara  seen  the 
^  dead  man  with  the  child  in  his  arms. 

CATHLEEN  AND  NORA 
Uah. 

They  crouch  down  in  front  of  the 
old  woman  at  the  fire. 

NORA 
Tell  us  what  it  is  you  seen. 

MAURYA 

I  went  down  to  the  spring  well,  and  I 
stood  there  saying  a  prayer  to  myself.  Then 
Hartley  came  along,  and  he  riding  on  the  red 
mare  with  the  gray  pony  behind  him  (she 
puts  up  her  hands,  as  if  to  hide  something 
from  her  eyes.}  The  Son  of  God  spare  us, 
Nora! 

CATHLEEN 

What  is  it  you  seen. 

MAURYA 
I  seen  Michael  himself. 

CATHLEEN 
Speaking  softly. 

36 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

You  did  not,  mother;  It  wasn't  Michael 
you  seen,  for  his  body  is  after  being  found 
in  the  far  north,  and  he's  got  a  clean  burial 
by  the  grace  of  God. 

MAURYA 
A  little  defiantly. 

I'm  after  seeing  him  this  day,  and  he  riding 
and  galloping.  Bartley  came  first  on  the  red 
mare ;  and  I  tried  to  say  "  God  speed  you," 
but  something  choked  the  words  in  my  throat. 
He  went  by  quickly ;  and  "  the  blessing  of  God 
on  you,"  says  he,  and  I  could  say  nothing.  I 
looked  up  then,  and  I  crying,  at  the  gray  pony, 
and  there  was  Michael  upon  it  —  with  fine 
clothes  on  him,  and  new  shoes  on  his  feet. 

CATHLEEN 
Begins  to  keen. 

It's  destroyed  we  are  from  this  day.  It's 
destroyed,  surely. 

NORA 

Didn't  the  young  priest  say  the  Almighty 
God  wouldn't  leave  her  destitute  with  no  so 
living? 

MAURYA 

In  a  low  voice,  but  clearly. 
37 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

It's  little  the  like  of  him  knows  of  the  sea. 

.  .  .  Bartley  will  be  lost  now,  and  let 
you  call  in  Eamon  and  make  me  a  good  coffin 
out  of  the  white  boards,  for  I  won't  live  after 
them.  I've  had  a  husband,  and  a  husband's 
father,  and  six  sons  in  this  house  —  six  fine 
men,  though  it  was  a  hard  birth  I  had  with 
every  one  of  them  and  they  coming  to  the 
world  —  and  some  of  them  were  found  and 
some  of  them  were  not  found,  but  they're 
gone  now  the  lot  of  them.  .  .  There  were 
Stephen,  and  Shawn,  were  lost  in  the  great 
wind,  and  found  after  in  the  Bay  of  Gregory 
of  the  Golden  Mouth,  and  carried  up  the  two 
of  them  on  the  one  plank,  and  in  by  that  door. 

She  pauses  for  a  moment,  the  girls 
start  as  if  they  heard  something 
through  the  door  that  is  half  open 

behind  them. 

NORA 
In  a  whisper. 

Did  you  hear  that,  Cathleen  ?  Did  you  hear 
a  noise  in  the  north-east? 

CATHLEEN 
In  a  -whisper. 

There's  some  one  after  crying  out  by  the 
seashore. 

38 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

MAURYA 
Continues  without  hearing  anything. 

There  was  Sheamus  and  his  father,  and  his 
own  father  again,  were  lost  in  a  dark  night, 
and  not  a  stick  or  sign  was  seen  of  them  when 
the  sun  went  up.  There  was  Patch  after  was 
drowned  out  of  a  curagh  that  turned  over. 
I  was  sitting  here  with  Bartley,  and  he  a 
baby,  lying  on  my  two  knees,  and  I  seen  two 
women,  and  three  women,  and  four  women 
coming  in,  and  they  crossing  themselves,  and 
not  saying  a  word.  I  looked  out  then,  and 
there  were  men  coming  after  them,  and  they 
holding  a  thing  in  the  half  of  a  red  sail,  and 
water  dripping  out  of  it  —  it  was  a  dry  day, 
Nora  —  and  leaving  a  track  to  the  door. 

She  pauses  again  with  her  hand 
stretched  out  towards  the  door.  It 
opens  softly  and  old  women  begin 
to  come  in,  crossing  themselves  on 
the  threshold,  and  kneeling  down  in 
front  of  the  stage  with  red  petti- 
coats over  their  heads. 

MAURYA 

Half  in  a  dream,  to  Cathleen. 
Is  it  Patch,  or  Michael,  or  what  is  it  at  all  ? 
39 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 
CATHLEEN 

Michael  is  after  being  found  in  the  far 
north,  and  when  he  is  found  there  how  could 
he  be  here  in  this  place? 

MAURYA 

There  does  be  a  power  of  young  men 
floating  round  in  the  sea,  and  what  way  would 
they  know  if  it  was  Michael  they  had,  or 
another  man  like  him,  for  when  a  man  is 
nine  days  in  the  sea,  and  the  wind  blowing, 
it's  hard  set  his  own  mother  would  be  to  say 
what  man  was  it. 

CATHLEEN 

It's  Michael,  God  spare  him,  for  they're 
after  sending  us  a  bit  of  his  clothes  from  the 
far  north. 

She  reaches  out  and  hands  Maurya 
the  clothes  that  belonged  to  Michael. 
Maurya  stands  up  slowly,  and  takes 
them  in  her  hands.  Nora  looks  out. 

NORA 

They're  carrying  a  thing  among  them  and 
there's  water  dripping  out  of  it  and  leaving 
a  track  by  the  big  stones. 
40 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 
CATHLEEN 

In  a  whisper   to   the  women  who 
have  come  in. 

Is  it  Bartley  it  is? 

ONE  OF  THE  WOMEN 

It  is  surely,  God  rest  his  soul. 

Two  younger  women  come  in  and 

^pull  out  the  table.     Then  men  carry 

in  the  body  of  Bartley,  laid  on  a 

plank,  with  a  bit  of  a  sail  over  it, 

and  lay  it  on  the  table. 

CATHLEEN 

To  the  women,  as  they  are  doing  so. 
What  way  was  he  drowned? 

ONE  OF  THE  WOMEN 

The  gray  pony  knocked  him  into  the  sea, 
and  he  was  washed  out  where  there  is  a 
great  surf  on  the  white  rocks. 

Maurya  has  gone  over  and  knelt 
down  at  the  head  of  the  table.  The 
women  are  keening  softly  and  sivay- 
ing  themselves  with  a  slow  move- 
ment. Cathleen  and  Nora  kneel  at 
the  other  end  of  the  table.  The  men 
kneel  near  the  door. 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 
MAURYA 

Raising  her  head  and  speaking  as  if 
she  did  not  see  the  people  around  her. 

They're  all  gone  now,  and  there  isn't  any- 
thing more  the  sea  can  do  to  me.  .  .  .  I'll 
have  no  call  now  to  be  up  crying  and  praying 
when  the  wind  breaks  from  the  south,  and 
you  can  hear  the  surf  is  in  the  east,  and  the 
surf  is  in  the  west,  making  a  great  stir  with 
the  two  noises,  and  they  hitting  one  on  the 
other.  I'll  have  no  call  now  to  be  going  down 
and  getting  Holy  Water  in  the  dark  nights 
after  Samhain,  and  I  won't  care  what  way 
the  sea  is  when  the  other  women  will  be 
keening.  (To  Nora}.  Give  me  the  Holy 
Water,  Nora,  there's  a  small  sup  still  on  the 
dresser. 

Nora  gives  it  to  her. 

MAURYA 

Drops  Michael's  clothes  across  Bart- 
ley's  feet,   and  sprinkles  the  Holy 
Water  over  him. 

It  isn't  that  I  haven't  prayed  for  you, 
Bartley,  to  the  Almighty  God.  It  isn't  that 
I  haven't  said  prayers  in  the  dark  night  till 
you  wouldn't  know  -what  I'ld  be  saying;  but 
it's  a  great  rest  I'll  have  now,  and  it's 
43 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

time  surely.  It's  a  great  rest  I'll  have  now, 
and  great  sleeping  in  the  long  nights  after 
Samhain,  if  it's  only  a  bit  of  wet  flour  we 
do  have  to  eat,  and  maybe  a  fish  that  would 
be  stinking. 

She    kneels    down    again,    crossing 
herself,    and   saying  prayers   under 

her  breath. 

CATHLEEN 
To  an  old  man. 

Maybe  yourself  and  Eamon  would  make  a 
coffin  when  the  sun  rises.  We  have  fine  white 
boards  herself  bought,  God  help  her,  thinking 
Michael  would  be  found,  and  I  have  a  new 
cake  you  can  eat  while  you'll  be  working. 

THE  OLD  MAN 
Looking  at  the  boards. 
Are  there  nails  with  them? 
CATHLEEN 

There  are  not,  Colum;  we  didn't  think  of 
the  nails. 

ANOTHER  MAN 

It's  a  great  wonder  she  wouldn't  think  of 
the  nails,  and  all  the  coffins  she's  seen  made 
already. 

43 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

CATHLEEN 
It's  getting  old  she  is,  and  broken. 

Maurya  stands  up  again  very  slowly 
and  spreads  out  the  pieces  of 
Michael's  clothes  beside  the  body, 
sprinkling  them  with  the  last  of  the 

Holy  Water. 

NORA 
In  a  whisper  to  Cathleen. 

She's  quiet  now  and  easy;  but  the  day 
Michael  was  drowned  you  could  hear  her  cry- 
ing out  from  this  to  the  spring  well.  It's 
fonder  she  was  of  Michael,  and  would  any 
one  have  thought  that? 

CATHLEEN 
Slowly  and  clearly. 

An  old  woman  will  be  soon  tired  with  any- 
thing she  will  do,  and  isn't  it  nine  days  herself 
is  after  crying  and  keening,  and  making  great 
sorrow  in  the  house? 

MAURYA 

Puts  the  empty  cup  mouth  down- 
wards  on   the   table,   and  lays  her 
hands  together  on  Bartley's  feet. 

They're  all  together  this  time,  and  the  end 
44 


RIDERS    TO    THE    SEA 

is  come.  May  the  Almighty  God  have  mercy 
on  Bartley's  soul,  and  on  Michael's  soul,  and 
on  the  souls  of  Sheamus  and  Patch,  and 
Stephen  and  Shawn  (bending  her  head} ; 
and  may  He  have  mercy  on  my  soul,  Nora, 
and  on  the  soul  of  every  one  is  left  living  in 
the  world. 

She  pauses,  and  the  keen  rises  a  little 
more  loudly  from  the  women,  then 

sinks  away. 

MAURYA 
Continuing. 

Michael  has  a  clean  burial  in  the  far  north, 
by  the  grace  of  the  Almighty  God.  Bartley 
will  have  a  fine  coffin  out  of  the  white  boards, 
and  a  deep  grave  surely.  What  more  can  we 
want  than  that?  No  man  at  all  can  be  living 
for  ever,  and  we  must  be  satisfied. 

She  kneels  down  again  and  the  cur- 
tain falls  slowly. 


45 


THE  WELL  OF 
THE    SAINTS 


SCENE 

Some  lonely  mountainous  district 
in  the  east  of  Ireland  one  or  more 
centuries  ago. 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS  was  first  pro- 
duced in  the  Abbey  Theatre  in  February,  1905, 
by  the  Irish  National  Theatre  Society,  under 
the  direction  of  W.  G.  Fay,  and  with  the 
following  cast. 

Martin  Doul  W.  G.  FAY 

Mary  Doul  EMMA  VERNON 

Timmy  GEORGE  ROBERTS 

Molly  Byrne  SARA  ALLGOOD 

Bride  MAIRE  NIC  SHIUBHLAIGH 

Mat  Simon  P.  MAC  SHIUBHLAIGH 

The  Saint  F.  J.  FAY 

OTHER  GIRLS  AND  MEN 


PERSONS  IN  THE  PLAY 

MARTIN  DOUL,  weather-beaten,  blind  beggar 

MARY  DOUL,  his  Wife,  weather-beaten,  ugly 
woman,  blind  also,  nearly  fifty 

TIM  MY,   a  middle-aged,   almost  elderly,   but 
vigorous  smith 

MOLLY  BYRNE,  fine-looking  girl  with  fair  hair 

BRIDE,  another  handsome  girl 

MAT  SIMON 

THE  SAINT,  a  wandering  Friar 

OTHER  GIRLS  AND  MEN 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 


ACT  I 

Roadside  with  big  stones,  etc.,  on  the  right; 
low  loose  wall  at  back  with  gap  near  centre; 
at  left,  ruined  doorway  of  church  with  bushes 
beside  it.  Martin  Doul  and  Mary  Doul  grope 
in  on  left  and  pass  over  to  stones  on  right, 
where  they  sit. 

MARY  DOUL.  What  place  are  we  now, 
Martin  Doul? 

MARTIN  DOUL.     Passing  the  gap. 

MARY  DOUL  —  raising  her  head.  — The 
length  of  that!  Well,  the  sun's  getting  warm 
this  day  if  it's  late  autumn  itself. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  putting  out  his  hands 
in  sun.  —  What  way  wouldn't  it  be  warm  and 
it  getting  high  up  in  the  south?  You  were 
that  length  plaiting  your  yellow  hair  you  have 
the  morning  lost  on  us,  and  the  people  are 
after  passing  to  the  fair  of  Clash. 

MARY  DOUL.  It  isn't  going  to  the  fair, 
the  time  they  do  be  driving  their  cattle  and 
they  with  a  litter  of  pigs  maybe  squealing  in 
their  carts,  they'd  give  us  a  thing  at  all.  (She 


16          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

sits  down.}  It's  well  you  know  that,  but  you 
must  be  talking. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  sitting  down  beside 
her  and  beginning  to  shred  rushes  she  gives 
him. —  If  I  didn't  talk  I'd  be  destroyed  in  a 
short  while  listening  to  the  clack  you  do  be 
making,  for  you've  a  queer  cracked  voice,  the 
Lord  have  mercy  on  you,  if  it's  fine  to  look  on 
you  are  itself. 

MARY  DOUL.  Who  wouldn't  have  a 
cracked  voice  sitting  out  all  the  year  in  the 
rain  falling?  It's  a  bad  life  for  the  voice, 
Martin  Doul,  though  I've  heard  tell  there 
isn't  anything  like  the  wet  south  wind  does 
be  blowing  upon  us  for  keeping  a  white 
beautiful  skin  —  the  like  of  my  skin  —  on 
your  neck  and  on  your  brows,  and  there  isn't 
anything  at  all  like  a  fine  skin  for  putting 
splendour  on  a  woman. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  teasingly,  but  with 
good  humour. —  I  do  be  thinking  odd  times  we 
don't  know  rightly  what  way  you  have  your 
splendour,  or  asking  myself,  maybe,  if  you 
have  it  at  all,  for  the  time  I  was  a  young  lad, 
and  had  fine  sight,  it  was  the  ones  with  sweet 
voices  were  the  best  in  face. 

MARY  DOUL.  Let  you  not  be  making 
the  like  of  that  talk  when  you've  heard 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS  17 

Timmy  the  smith,  and  Mat  Simon,  and  Patch 
Ruadh,  and  a  power  besides  saying  fine 
things  of  my  face,  and  you  know  rightly  it 
was  "  the  beautiful  dark  woman  "  they  did 
call  me  in  Ballinatone. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  as  before.— It  it  was 
itself  I  heard  Molly  Byrne  saying  at  the  fall 
of  night  it  was  little  more  than  a  fright  you 
were. 

MARY  DOUL  —  sharply.—  She  was  jeal- 
ous, God  forgive  her,  because  Timmy  the 
smith  was  after  praising  my  hair 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  with  mock  irony. — 
Jealous ! 

MARY  DOUL.  Ay,  jealous,  Martin 
Doul;  and  if  she  wasn't  itself,  the  young  and 
silly  do  be  always  making  game  of  them  that's 
dark,  and  they'd  think  it  a  fine  thing  if  they 
had  us  deceived,  the  way  we  wouldn't  know 
we  were  so  fine-looking  at  all. 

[She  puts  her  hand  to  her  face  with  a 
complacent  gesture. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  a  little  plaintively. — 
I  do  be  thinking  in  the  long  nights  it'd  be  a 
grand  thing  if  we  could  see  ourselves  for  one 
hour,  or  a  minute  itself,  the  way  we'd  know 
surely  we  were  the  finest  man  and  the  finest 
woman  of  the  seven  counties  of  the  east  — 


i8  THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

(bitterly}  and  then  the  seeing  rabble  below 
might  be  destroying  their  souls  telling  bad 
lies,  and  we'd  never  heed  a  thing  they'd  say. 

MARY  DOUL.  If  you  weren't  a  big  fool 
you  wouldn't  heed  them  this  hour,  Martin 
Doul,  for  they're  a  bad  lot  those  that  have 
their  sight,  and  they  do  have  great  joy,  the 
time  they  do  be  seeing  a  grand  thing,  to  let 
on  they  don't  see  it  at  all,  and  to  be  telling 
fool's  lies,  the  like  of  what  Molly  Byrne  was 
telling  to  yourself. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  If  it's  lies  she  does  be 
telling  she's  a  sweet,  beautiful  voice  you'd 
never  tire  to  be  hearing,  if  it  was  only  the 
pig  she'd  be  calling,  or  crying  out  in  the  long 
grass,  maybe,  after  her  hens.  (Speaking 
pensively.}  It  should  be  a  fine,  soft,  rounded 
woman,  I'm  thinking,  would  have  a  voice  the 
like  of  that. 

MARY  DOUL  —  sharply  again,  scandal- 
ised.—  Let  you  not  be  minding  if  it's  flat  or 
rounded  she  is;  for  she's  a  flighty,  foolish 
woman,  you'll  hear  when  you're  off  a  long 
way,  and  she  making  a  great  noise  and  laugh- 
ing at  the  well. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Isn't  laughing  a  nice 
thing  the  time  a  woman's  young? 

MARY  DOUL  —  bitterly.  —  A  nice  thing 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS  19 

is  it?  A  nice  thing  to  hear  a  woman  making 
a  loud  braying  laugh  the  like  of  that?  Ah, 
she's  a  great  one  for  drawing  the  men,  and 
you'll  hear  Timmy  himself,  the  time  he  does 
be  sitting  in  his  forge,  getting  mighty  fussy 
if  she'll  come  walking  from  Grianan,  the  way 
you'll  hear  his  breath  going,  and  he  wringing 
his  hands. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  slightly  piqued.  —  I've 
heard  him  say  a  power, of  times  it's  nothing 
at  all  she  is  when  you  see  her  at  the  side  of 
you,  and  yet  I  never  heard  any  man's  breath 
getting  uneasy  the  time  he'd  be  looking  on 
yourself. 

MARY  DOUL.  I'm  not  the  like  of  the 
girls  do  be  running  round  on  the  roads,  swing- 
ing their  legs,  and  they  with  their  necks  out 
looking  on  the  men.  .  .  .  Ah,  there's  a  power 
of  villainy  walking  the  world,  Martin  Doul, 
among  them  that  do  be  gadding  around  with 
their  gaping  eyes,  and  their  sweet  words,  and 
they  with  no  sense  in  them  at  all. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  sadly.—  It's  the  truth, 
maybe,  and  yet  I'm  told  it's  a  grand  thing  to 
see  a  young  girl  walking  the  road. 

MARY  DOUL.  You'd  be  as  bad  as  the 
rest  of  them  if  you  had  your  sight,  and  I  did 
well,  surely,  not  to  marry  a  seeing  man  — 


2o  THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

it's  scores  would  have  had  me  and  welcome  — 
for  the  seeing  is  a  queer  lot,  and  you'd  never 
know  the  thing  they'd  do. 

[A  moment's  pause. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  listening.  —  There's 
some  one  coming  on  the  road. 

MARY  DOUL.  Let  you  put  the  pith 
away  out  of  their  sight,  or  they'll  be  picking 
it  out  with  the  spying  eyes  they  have,  and 
saying  it's  rich  we  are,  and  not  sparing  us  a 
thing  at  all. 

[They  bundle  away  the  rushes.     Timmy 
the  smith  comes  in  on  left. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  with  a  begging  voice. 
—  Leave  a  bit  of  silver  for  blind  Martin,  your 
honour.  Leave  a  bit  of  silver,  or  a  penny 
copper  itself,  and  we'll  be  praying  the  Lord 
to  bless  you  and  you  going  the  way. 

TIMMY  —  stopping  before  them.  —  And 
you  letting  on  a  while  back  you  knew  my  step ! 

{He  sits  down. 

MARTIN  —  with  his  natural  voice.  —  I 
know  it  when  Molly  Byrne's  walking  in  front, 
or  when  she's  two  perches,  maybe,  lagging 
behind;  but  it's  few  times  I've  heard  you 
walking  up  the  like  of  that,  as  if  you'd  met  a 
thing  wasn't  right  and  you  coming  on  the  road. 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS  21 

TIMMY  —  hot  and  breathless,  wiping  his 
face.  —  You've  good  ears,  God  bless  you,  if 
you're  a  liar  itself;  for  I'm  after  walking  up 
in  great  haste  from  hearing  wonders  in  the 
fair. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  rather  contemptuous- 
ly.—  You're  always  hearing  queer  wonderful 
things,  and  the  lot  of  them  nothing  at  all; 
but  I'm  thinking,  this  time,  it's  a  strange 
thing  surely  you'd  be  walking  up  before  the 
turn  of  day,  and  not  waiting  below  to  look 
on  them  lepping,  or  dancing,  or  playing  shows 
on  the  green  of  Clash. 

TIMMY  —  huffed.  —  I  was  coming  to  tell 
you  it's  in  this  place  there'd  be  a  bigger 
wonder  done  in  a  short  while  (Martin  Doul 
stops  working}  than  was  ever  done  on  the 
green  of  Clash,  or  the  width  of  Leinster  itself; 
but  you're  thinking,  maybe,  you're  too  cute  a 
little  fellow  to  be  minding  me  at  all. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  amused,  but  incredu- 
lous. —  There'll  be  wonders  in  this  place,  is  it? 

TIMMY.  Here  at  the  crossing  of  the 
roads. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  I  never  heard  tell  of 
anything  to  happen  in  this  place  since  the 
night  they  killed  the  old  fellow  going  home 
with  his  gold,  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  him, 


22          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

md  threw  down  his  corpse  into  the  bog.  Let 
them  not  be  doing  the  like  of  that  this  night, 
for  it's  ourselves  have  a  right  to  the  crossing 
roads,  and  we  don't  want  any  of  your  bad 
tricks,  or  your  wonders  either,  for  it's  wonder 
enough  we  are  ourselves. 

TIMMY.  If  I'd  a  mind  I'd  be  telling  you 
of  a  real  wonder  this  day,  and  the  way  you'll 
be  having  a  great  joy,  maybe,  you're  not 
thinking  on  at  all. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  interested.—  Are  they 
putting  up  a  still  behind  in  the  rocks?  It'd 
be  a  grand  thing  if  I'd  sup  handy  the  way  I 
wouldn't  be  destroying  myself  groping  up 
across  the  bogs  in  the  rain  falling. 

TIMMY  —  still  moodily. —  It's  not  a  still 
they're  bringing,  or  the  like  of  it  either. 

MARY  DOUL  —  persuasively,  to  Timmy. 
—  Maybe  they're  hanging  a  thief,  above  at 
the  bit  of  a  tree.  I'm  told  it's  a  great  sight 
to  see  a  man  hanging  by  his  neck;  but  what 
joy  would  that  be  to  ourselves,  and  we  not 
seeing  it  at  all  ? 

TIMMY  —  more  pleasantly. —  They're 
hanging  no  one  this  day,  Mary  Doul,  and  yet, 
with  the  help  of  God,  you'll  see  a  power 
hanged  before  you  die. 

MARY  DOUL.     Well  you've  queer  hum- 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS  23 

bugging  talk.  .  .  .  What  way  would  I  see  a 
power  hanged,  and  I  a  dark  woman  since  the 
seventh  year  of  my  age? 

TIMMY.  Did  ever  you  hear  tell  of  a 
place  across  a  bit  of  the  sea,  where  there  is 
an  island,  and  the  grave  of  the  four  beautiful 
saints  ? 

MARY  DOUL.  I've  heard  people  have 
walked  round  from  the  west  and  they  speak- 
ing of  that. 

TIMMY  —  impressively. —  There's  a  green 
ferny  well,  I'm  told,  behind  of  that  place,  and 
if  you  put  a  drop  of  the  water  out  of  it  on 
the  eyes  of  a  blind  man,  you'll  make  him  see 
as  well  as  any  person  is  walking  the  world. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  with  excitement.  —  Is 
that  the  truth,  Timmy?  I'm  thinking  you're 
telling  a  lie. 

TIMMY  —  gruffly.  —  T  h  a  t '  s  the  truth, 
Martin  Doul,  and  you  may  believe  it  now,  for 
you're  after  believing  a  power  of  things 
weren't  as  likely  at  all. 

MARY  DOUL.  Maybe  we  could  send  us 
a  young  lad  to  bring  us  the  water.  I  could 
wash  a  naggin  bottle  in  the  morning,  and  I'm 
thinking  Patch  Ruadh  would  go  for  it,  if  we 
gave  him  a  good  drink,  and  the  bit  of  money 
we  have  hid  in  the  thatch. 


24          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

TIMMY.  It'cl  be  no  good  to  be  sending  a 
sinful  man  the  like  of  ourselves,  for  I'm  told 
the  holiness  of  the  water  does  be  getting  soiled 
with  the  villainy  of  your  heart,  the  time  you'd 
be  carrying  it,  and  you  looking  round  on  the 
girls,  maybe,  or  drinking  a  small  sup  at  a  still. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  with  disappointment. 
— It'd  be  a  long  terrible  way  to  be  walking 
ourselves,  and  I'm  thinking  that's  a  wonder 
will  bring  small  joy  to  us  at  all. 

TIMMY  —  turning  on  him  impatiently. — 
What  is  it  you  want  with  your  walking?  It's 
as  deaf  as  blind  you're  growing  if  you're  not 
after  hearing  me  say  it's  in  this  place  the 
wonder  would  be  done. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  with  a  flash  of  anger. 
—  If  it  is  can't  you  open  the  big  slobbering 
mouth  you  have  and  say  what  way  it'll  be 
done,  and  not  be  making  blather  till  the  fall 
of  night. 

TIMMY  —  jumping  up. —  I'll  be  going  on 
now  (Mary  Doul  rises'),  and  not  wasting  time 
talking  civil  talk  with  the  like  of  you. 

MARY  DOUL  —  standing  up,  disguising 
her  impatience. —  Let  you  come  here  to  me, 
Timmy,  and  not  be  minding  him  at  all. 
(Timmy  stops,  and  she  gropes  up  to  him  and 
takes  him  by  the  coat}.  You're  not  huffy 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          25 

with  myself,  and  let  you  tell  me  the  whole 
story  and  don't  be  fooling  me  more.  ...  Is 
it  yourself  has  brought  us  the  water? 

TIMMY.     It  is  not,  surely. 

MARY  DOUL.  Then  tell  us  your  wonder, 
Timmy.  .  ,  .  What  person'll  bring  it  at  all? 

TIMMY  —  relenting. —  It's  a  fine  holy 
man  will  bring  it,  a  saint  of  the  Almighty  God. 

MARY  DOUL  —  overawed. —  A  saint  is 
it? 

TIMMY.  Ay,  a  fine  saint,  who's  going 
round  through  the  churches  of  Ireland,  with 
a  long  cloak  on  him,  and  naked  feet,  for  he's 
brought  a  sup  of  the  water  slung  at  his  side, 
and,  with  the  like  of  him,  any  little  drop  is 
enough  to  cure  the  dying,  or  to  make  the 
blind  see  as  clear  as  the  gray  hawks  do  be 
high  up,  on  a  still  day,  sailing  the  sky. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  feeling  for  his  stick. 
— What  place  is  he,  Timmy?  I'll  be  walking 
to  him  now. 

TIMMY.  Let  you  stay  quiet,  Martin. 
He's  straying  around  saying  prayers  at  the 
churches  and  high  crosses,  between  this  place 
and  the  hills,  and  he  with  a  great  crowd  go- 
ing behind  —  for  it's  fine  prayers  he  does  be 
saying,  and  fasting  with  it,  till  he's  as  thin  as 
one  of  the  empty  rushes  you  have  there  on 


26  TUE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

your  knee;  then  he'll  be  coming  after  to  this 
place  to  cure  the  two  of  you  —  we're  after 
telling  him  the  way  you  are  —  and  to  say  his 
prayers  in  the  church. 

MARTIN  DOUL—  turning  suddenly  to 
Mary  Doul.  —  And  we'll  be  seeing  ourselves 
this  day.  Oh,  glory  be  to  God,  is  it  true 
surely  ? 

MARY  DOUL  —  very  pleased,  to  Timmy. 
—  Maybe  I'd  have  time  to  walk  down  and 
get  the  big  shawl  I  have  below,  for  I  do  look 
my  best,  I've  heard  them  say,  when  I'm 
dressed  up  with  that  thing  on  my  head. 

TIMMY.     You'd  have  time  surely 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  listening.  -  -  Whisht 
now.  .  .  I  hear  people  again  coming  by  the 
stream. 

TIMMY  —  looking  out  left,  puzzled.  —  It's 
the  young  girls  I  left  walking  after  the  Saint. 
.  .  .  They're  coming  now  (goes  up  to  en- 
trance') carrying  things  in  their  hands,  and 
they  walking  as  easy  as  you'd  see  a  child  walk 
who'd  have  a  dozen  eggs  hid  in  her  bib. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  listening.  —  That's 
Molly  Byrne,  I'm  thinking. 

[Molly  Byrne  and  Bride  come  on  left  and 
cross  to  Martin  Doul,  carrying  water- 
can,  Saint's  bell,  and  cloak. 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          27 

MOLLY  —  volubly. —  God  bless  you,  Mar- 
tin. I've  holy  water  here,  from  the  grave  of 
the  four  saints  of  the  west,  will  have  you 
cured  in  a  short  while  and  seeing  like  our- 
selves   

TIMMY  —  crosses  to  Molly,  interrupting 
her. —  He's  heard  that.  God  help  you.  But 
where  at  all  is  the  Saint,  and  what  way  is  he 
after  trusting  the  holy  water  with  the  likes  of 
you? 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  He  was  afeard  to  go 
a  far  way  with  the  clouds  is  coming  beyond, 
so  he's  gone  up  now  through  the  thick  woods 
to  say  a  prayer  at  the  crosses  of  Grianan,  and 
he's  coming  on  this  road  to  the  church. 

TIMMY  —  still  astonished. —  And  he's  af- 
ter leaving  the  holy  water  with  the  two  of 
you?  It's  a  wonder,  surely. 

{Comes  down  left  a  little. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  The  lads  told  him 
no  person  could  carry  them  things  through 
the  briars,  and  steep,  slippy-feeling  rocks  he'll 
be  climbing  above,  so  he  looked  round  then, 
and  gave  the  water,  and  his  big  cloak,  and  his 
bell  to  the  two  of  us,  for  young  girls,  says 
he,  are  the  cleanest  holy  people  you'd  see 
walking  the  world. 

[Mary  Doul  goes  near  seat. 


28          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

MARY  DOUL  —  sits  down,  laughing  to 
herself. —  Well,  the  Saint's  a  simple  fellow, 
and  it's  no  lie. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  leaning  forward, 
holding  out  his  hands. —  Let  you  give  me  the 
water  in  my  hand,  Molly  Byrne,  the  way 
I'll  know  you  have  it  surely. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  giving  it  to  him.— 
Wonders  is  queer  things,  and  maybe  it'd  cure 
you,  and  you  holding  it  alone. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  looking  round.— It 
does  not,  Molly.  I'm  not  seeing  at  all.  (He 
shakes  the  can.}  There's  a  small  sup  only. 
Well,  isn't  it  a  great  wonder  the  little  trifling 
thing  would  bring  seeing  to  the  blind,  and  be 
showing  us  the  big  women  and  the  young 
girls,  and  all  the  fine  things  is  walking  the 
world. 

[He  feels  for  Mary  Doul  and  gives  her 
the  can. 

MARY  DOUL  —  shaking  it.—  Well,  glory 
be  to  God 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  pointing  to  Bride.— 
And  what  is  it  herself  has,  making  sounds  in 
her  hand? 

BRIDE  —  crossing  to  Martin  Doul. —  It's 
the  Saint's  bell;  you'll  hear  him  ringing  out 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          29 

the  time  he'll  be  going  up  some  place,  to  be 
saying  his  prayers. 

[Martin  Doul  holds  out  his  hand;  she 
gives  it  to  him. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  ringing  it.—  It's  a 
sweet,  beautiful  sound. 

MARY  DOUL.  You'd  know,  I'm  think- 
ing, by  the  little  silvery  voice  of  it,  a  fasting 
holy  man  was  after  carrying  it  a  great  way 
at  his  side. 

[Bride  crosses  a  little  right  behind  Martin 

Doul. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  unfolding  Saint's 
cloak. —  Let  you  stand  up  now,  Martin  Doul, 
till  I  put  his  big  cloak  on  you.  (Martin  Doul 
rises,  comes  forward,  centre  a  little.)  The 
way  we'd  see  how  you'd  look,  and  you  a  saint 
of  the  Almighty  God. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  standing  up,  a  little 
diffidently. —  I've  heard  the  priests  a  power 
of  times  making  great  talk  and  praises  of  the 
beauty  of  the  saints. 

[Molly  Byrne  slips  cloak  round  him. 

TIMMY  —  uneasily. —  You'd  have  a  right 
to  be  leaving  him  alone,  Molly.  What  would 
the  Saint  say  if  he  seen  you  making  game  with 
his  cloak? 


30          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  recklessly.—  How 
would  he  see  us,  and  he  saying  prayers  in  the 
wood?  (She  turns  Martin  Doul  round.) 
Isn't  that  a  fine,  holy-looking  saint,  Timmy 
the  smith?  (Laughing  foolishly.)  There's 
a  grand,  handsome  fellow,  Mary  Doul;  and 
if  you  seen  him  now  you'd  be  as  proud,  I'm 
thinking,  as  the  archangels  below,  fell  out 
with  the  Almighty  God. 

MARY  DOUL  —  with  quiet  confidence 
going  to  Martin  Doul  and  feeling  his  cloak. — 
It's  proud  we'll  be  this  day,  surely. 

[Martin  Doul  is  still  ringing. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  to  Martin  Doul.— 
Would  you  think  well  to  be  all  your  life 
walking  round  the  like  of  that,  Martin  Doul, 
and  you  bell-ringing  with  the  saints  of  God? 

MARY  DOUL  —  turning  on  her,  fiercely. 
—  How  would  he  be  bell-ringing  with  the 
saints  of  God  and  he  wedded  with  myself? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  It's  the  truth  she's 
saying,  and  if  bell-ringing  is  a  fine  life,  yet 
I'm  thinking,  maybe,  it's  better  I  am  wedded 
with  the  beautiful  dark  woman  of  Ballinatone. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  scornfully.—  You're 
thinking  that,  God  help  you ;  but  it's  little  you 
know  of  her  at  all. 

MARTIN  DOUL.     It's  little  surely,  and 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          31 

I'm  destroyed  this  day  waiting  to  look  upon 
her  face. 

TIMMY  —  awkwardly. —  It's  well  you 
know  the  way  she  is;  for  the  like  of  you  do 
have  great  knowledge  in  the  feeling  of  your 
hands. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  still  feeling  the  cloak, 
—  We  do,  maybe.  Yet  it's  little  I  know  of 
faces,  or  of  fine  beautiful  cloaks,  for  it's  few 
cloaks  I've  had  my  hand  to,  and  few  faces 
(plaintively)  ;  for  the  young  girls  is  mighty 
shy,  Timmy  the  smith  and  it  isn't  much  they 
heed  me,  though  they  do  be  saying  I'm  a 
handsome  man. 

MARY  DOUL  —  mockingly,  with  good 
humour. —  Isn't  it  a  queer  thing  the  voice  he 
puts  on  him,  when  you  hear  him  talking  of 
the  skinny-looking  girls,  and  he  married  with 
a  woman  he's  heard  called  the  wonder  of  the 
western  world? 

TIMMY  —  pityingly. —  The  two  of  you 
will  see  a  great  wonder  this  day,  and  it's  no 
lie. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  I've  heard  tell  her 
yellow  hair,  and  her  white  skin,  and  her  big 
eyes  are  a  wonder,  surely 

BRIDE  —  who  has  looked  out  left. — 
Here's  the  Saint  comino-  from  the  s?1vacre  of 


32          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

the  wood.  .  .  .    Strip  the  cloak   from  him, 
Molly,  or  he'll  be  seeing  it  now. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  hastily  to  Bride.— 
Take  the  bell  and  put  yourself  by  the  stones. 
(To  Martin  Doul.}  Will  you  hold  your  head 
up  till  I  loosen  the  cloak?  (She  pulls  off  the 
cloak  and  throws  it  over  her  arm.  Then  she 
pushes  Martin  Doul  over  and  stands  him  be- 
side Mary  Doul.}  Stand  there  now,  quiet, 
and  let  you  net  be  saying  a  word. 

[She  and  Bride  stand  a  little  on  their  left, 
demurely,  with  bell,  etc.,  in  their 
hands. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  nervously  arranging 
his  clothes. —  Will  he  mind  the  way  we  are, 
and  not  tidied  or  washed  cleanly  at  all? 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  He'll  not  see  what  way 
you  are.  .  .  .  He'd  walk  by  the  finest  woman 
in  Ireland,  I'm  thinking,  and  not  trouble  to 
raise  his  two  eyes  to  look  upon  her  face.  .  .  . 
Whisht! 

[The  Saint  comes  left,  with  crowd. 

SAINT.     Are  these  the  two  poor  people? 

TIMMY  —  officiously.—  They  are,  holy 
father;  they  do  be  always  sitting  here  at  the 
crossing  of  the  roads,  asking  a  bit  of  copper 
from  them  that  do  pass,  or  stripping  rushes 
for  lights,  and  they  not  mournful  at  all,  but 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          33 

talking  out  straight  with  a  full  voice,  and 
making  game  with  them  that  likes  it. 

SAINT  —  to  Martin  Doul  and.  Mary  Doul. 
—  It's  a  hard  life  you've  had  not  seeing  sun 
or  moon,  or  the  holy  priests  itself  praying  to 
the  Lord,  but  it's  the  like  of  you  who  are 
brave  in  a  bad  time  will  make  a  fine  use  of 
the  gift  of  sight  the  Almighty  God  will  bring 
to  you  today.  (He  takes  his  cloak  and  puts 
it  about  him.)  It's  on  a  bare  starving  rock 
that  there's  the  grave  of  the  four  beauties  of 
God,  the  way  it's  little  wonder,  I'm  thinking, 
if  it's  with  bare  starving  people  the  water 
should  be  used.  (He  takes  the  water  and  bell 
and  slings  them  round  his  shoulders.)  So  it's 
to  the  like  of  yourselves  I  do  be  going,  who 
are  wrinkled  and  poor,  a  thing  rich  men 
would  hardly  look  at  at  all,  but  would  throw 
a  coin  to  or  a  crust  of  bread. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  moving  uneasily. — 
When  they  look  on  herself,  who  is  a  fine 
woman. 

TIMMY  —  shaking  him. —  Whisht  now, 
and  be  listening  to  the  Saint. 

SAINT  —  looks  at  them  a  moment,  con- 
tinues.—  If  it's  raggy  and  dirty  you  are  itself, 
I'm  saying,  the  Almighty  God  isn't  at  all  like 
the  rich  men  of  Ireland;  and,  with  the  power 
of  the  water  I'm  after  bringing  in  a  little 


34  THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

curagh  into  Cashla  Bay,   He'll  have  pity  on 
you,  and  put  sight  into  your  eyes. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  taking  off  his  hat.— 
I'm  ready  now,  holy  father  — 

SAINT  —  taking  him  by  the  hand.  —  I'll 
cure  you  first,  and  then  I'll  come  for  your 
wife.  We'll  go  up  now  into  the  church,  for 
I  must  say  a  prayer  to  the  Lord.  (To  Mary 
Doul,  as  he  moves  off.)  And  let  you  be  mak- 
ing your  mind  still  and  saying  praises  in  your 
heart,  for  it's  a  great  wonderful  thing  when 
the  power  of  the  Lord  of  the  world  is  brought 
down  upon  your  like. 

PEOPLE  —  pressing  after  him.  —  Come 
now  till  we  watch. 

BRIDE.     Come,  Timmy. 

SAINT  —  waving  them  back.  —  Stay  back 
where  you  are,  for  I'm  not  wanting  a  big 
crowd  making  whispers  in  the  church.  Stay 
back  there,  I'm  saying,  and  you'd  do  well  to 
be  thinking  on  the  way  sin  has  brought  blind- 
ness to  the  world,  and  to  be  saying  a  prayer 
for  your  own  sakes  against  false  prophets  and 
heathens,  and  the  words  of  women  and  smiths, 
and  all  knowledge  that  would  soil  the  soul  or 
the  body  of  a  man. 

[People    shrink    "back.      He    goes    into 
church.     Mary  Doul  gropes  half -way 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS  35 

towards  the  door  and  kneels  near  path. 
People  form  a  group  at  right. 

TIMMY.  Isn't  it  a  fine,  beautiful  voice 
he  has,  and  he  a  fine,  brave  man  if  it  wasn't 
for  the  fasting? 

BRIDE.  Did  you  watch  him  moving  his 
hands  ? 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  It'd  be  a  fine  thing  if 
some  one  in  this  place  could  pray  the  like  of 
him,  for  I'm  thinking  the  water  from  our  own 
blessed  well  would  do  rightly  if  a  man  knew 
the  way  to  be  saying  prayers,  and  then  there'd 
be  no  call  to  be  bringing  water  from  that  wild 
place,  where,  I'm  told,  there  are  no  decent 
houses,  or  fine-looking  people  at  all. 

BRIDE  —  who  is  looking  in  at  door  from 
right. —  Look  at  the  great  trembling  Martin 
has  shaking  him,  and  he  on  his  knees. 

TIMMY  —  anxiously. —  God  help  him.  .  . 
What  will  he  be  doing  when  he  sees  his  wife 
this  day?  I'm  thinking  it  was  bad  work  we 
did  when  we  let  on  she  was  fine-looking,  and 
not  a  wrinkled,  wizened  hag  the  way  she  is. 

MAT  SIMON.  Why  would  he  be  vexed, 
and  we  after  giving  him  great  joy  and  pride, 
the  time  he  was  dark? 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  sitting  down  in  Mary 
Doul's  seat  and  tidying  her  hair. —  If  it's 


36          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

vexed  he  is  itself,  he'll  have  other  things  now 
to  think  on  as  well  as  his  wife;  and  what  does 
any  man  care  for  a  wife,  when  it's  two  weeks 
or  three,  he  is  looking  on  her  face? 

MAT  SIMON.  That's  the  truth  now, 
Molly,  and  it's  more  joy  dark  Martin  got  from 
the  lies  we  told  of  that  hag  is  kneeling  by  the 
path  than  your  own  man  will  get  from  you, 
day  or  night,  and  he  living  at  your  side. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  — defiantly.— Let  you 
not  be  talking,  Mat  Simon,  for  it's  not  your- 
self will  be  my  man,  though  you'd  be  crow- 
ing and  singing  fine  songs  if  you'd  that  hope 
in  you  at  all. 

TIMMY  —  shocked,  to  Molly  Byrne.— 
Let  you  not  be  raising  your  voice  when  the 
Saint's  above  at  his  prayers. 

BRIDE  —  crying  out. —  Whisht.  .  .  . 
Whisht.  .  .  .  I'm  thinking  he's  cured. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  crying  out  in  the 
church. —  Oh,  glory  be  to  God.  .  .  . 

SAINT  —  solemnly. —  Laus    Patri    sit    et 

Filio  cum  Spiritu  Paraclito 
Qui   Suae  dono  gratiae  misertus  est  Hiber- 
niae.  .  .  . 

MARTIN  DOUL— ecstatically.— Oh,  glory 
be  to  God,  I  see  now  surely.  ...  I  see  the 
walls  of  the  church,  and  the  green  bits  of 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS  37 

ferns  in  them,  and  yourself,  holy  father,  and 
the  great  width  of  the  sky. 

[He  runs  out  half-foolish  with  joy,  and 
comes     past     Mary     Doul     as     she 
scrambles  to  her  feet,  drawing  a  little 
away  from  her  as  he  goes  by. 
TIMMY—  to     the    others.  —  He    doesn't 
know  her  at  all. 

[The  Saint  comes  out  behind  Martin 
Doul,  and  leads  Mary  Doul  into  the 
church.  Martin  Doul  comes  on  to  the 
People.  The  men  are  between  him  and 
the  Girls;  he  verifies  his  position  with 
his  stick. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  crying  out  joyfully. — 
That's  Timmy,  I  know  Timmy  by  the  black  of 
his  head.  .  .  .  That's  Mat  Simon,  I  know 
Mat  by  the  length  of  his  legs.  .  .  .  That 
should  be  Patch  Ruadh,  with  the  gamey  eyes 
in  him,  and  the  fiery  hair.  (He  sees  Molly 
Byrne  on  Mary  Doul's  seat,  and  his  voice 
changes  completely.)  Oh,  it  was  no  lie  they 
told  me,  Mary  Doul.  Oh,  glory  to  God  and 
the  seven  saints  I  didn't  die  and  not  see  you 
at  all.  The  blessing  of  God  on  the  water,  and 
the  feet  carried  it  round  through  the  land. 
The  blessing  of  God  on  this  day,  and  them 
that  brought  me  the  Saint,  for  it's  grand  hair 


38  THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

you  have  (she  lowers  her  head  a  little  con- 
fused), and  soft  skin,  and  eyes  would  make 
the  saints,  if  they  were  dark  awhile  and  see- 
ing again,  fall  down  out  of  the  sky.  (He 
goes  nearer  to  her.)  Hold  up  your  head, 
Mary,  the  way  I'll  see  it's  richer  I  am  than 
the  great  kings  of  the  east.  Hold  up  your 
head,  I'm  saying,  for  it's  soon  you'll  be  seeing 
me,  and  I  not  a  bad  one  at  all. 

[He  touches  her  and  she  starts  up. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  Let  you  keep  away 
from  me,  and  not  be  soiling  my  chin. 

[People  laugh  heartily. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  bewildered.  --It's 
Molly's  voice  you  have. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  Why  wouldn't  I  have 
my  own  voice?  Do  you  think  I'm  a  ghost? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Which  of  you  all  is 
herself?  (He  goes  up  to  Bride.)  Is  it  you 
is  Mary  Doul?  I'm  thinking  you're  more  the 
like  of  what  they  said  (peering  at  her.)  For 
you've  yellow  hair,  and  white  skin,  and  it's 
the  smell  of  my  own  turf  is  rising  from  your 
shawl. 

[He  catches  her  shawl. 

BRIDE  —  pulling  away  her  shawl.  —  I'm 

not  your  wife,  and  let  you  get  out  of  my  way. 

[The  People  laugh  again. 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          39 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  with  misgiving,  to  an- 
other Girl. —  Is  it  yourself  it  is?  You're  not 
so  fine-looking,  but  I'm  thinking  you'd  do, 
with  the  grand  nose  you  have,  and  your  nice 
hands  and  your  feet. 

GIRL  —  scornfully. —  I  never  seen  any 
person  that  took  me  for  blind,  and  a  seeing 
woman,  I'm  thinking,  would  never  wed  the 
like  of  you. 

[She  turns  away,  and  the  People  laugh 
once  more,  drawing  back  a  little  and 
leaving  him  on  their  left. 

PEOPLE  —  jeeringly. —  Try  again,  Mar- 
tin, try  again,  and  you'll  be  finding  her  yet. 

MARTI  N  DOUL  —  passionately.— Where 
is  it  you  have  her  hidden  away?  Isn't  it  a 
black  shame  for  a  drove  of  pitiful  beasts  the 
like  of  you  to  be  making  game  of  me,  and 
putting  a  fool's  head  on  me  the  grand  day  of 
my  life?  Ah,  you're  thinking  you're  a  fine 
lot,  with  your  giggling,  weeping  eyes,  a 
fine  lot  to  be  making  game  of  myself  and  the 
woman  I've  heard  called  the  great  wonder  of 
the  west. 

[During  this  speech,  which  he  gives  with 
his  back  towards  the  church,  Mary 
Doul  has  come  out  with  her  sight 


4O          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

cured,  and  come  down  towards  the 
right  with  a  silly  simpering  smile,  till 
she  is  a  little  behind  Martin  Doul. 

MARY  DOUL—  when  he  pauses.— Which 
of  you  is  Martin  Doul? 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  wheeling  round.—  It's 
her  voice  surely. 

[They  stare  at  each  other  blankly. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  to  Martin  Doul.— 
Go  up  now  and  take  her  under  the  chin  and 
be  speaking  the  way  you  spoke  to  myself. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  in  a  low  voice,  with 
intensity. —  If  I  speak  now,  I'll  speak  hard  to 
the  two  of  you 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  to  Mary  Doul.— 
You're  not  saying  a  word,  Mary.  What  is 
it  you  think  of  himself,  with  the  fat  legs  on 
him,  and  the  little  neck  like  a  ram? 

MARY  DOUL.  I'm  thinking  it's  a  poor 
thing  when  the  Lord  God  gives  you  sight  and 
puts  the  like  of  that  man  in  your  way. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  It's  on  your  two 
knees  you  should  be  thanking  the  Lord  God 
you're  not  looking  on  yourself,  for  if  it  was 
yourself  you  seen  you'd  be  running  round  in 
a  short  while  like  the  old  screeching  mad- 
woman is  running  round  in  the  glen. 

MARY  DOUL  —  beginning  to  realize  her- 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS  41 

self.  —  If  I'm  not  so  fine  as  some  of  them  said, 
I  have  my  hair,  and  big  eyes,  and  my  white 


skin 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  breaking  out  into  a 
passionate  cry.  —  Your  hair,  and  your  big 
eyes,  is  it?  ...  I'm  telling  you  there  isn't 
a  wisp  on  any  gray  mare  on  the  ridge  of  the 
world  isn't  finer  than  the  dirty  twist  on  your 
head.  There  isn't  two  eyes  in  any  starving 
sow  isn't  finer  than  the  eyes  you  were  calling 
blue  like  the  sea. 

MARY  DOUL  —  interrupting  him.  —  It's 
the  devil  cured  you  this  day  with  your  talking 
of  sows;  it's  the  devil  cured  you  this  day,  I'm 
saying,  and  drove  you  crazy  with  lies. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Isn't  it  yourself  is 
after  playing  lies  on  me,  ten  years,  in  the  day 
and  in  the  night ;  but  what  is  that  to  you  now 
the  Lord  God  has  given  eyes  to  me,  the  way 
I  see  you  an  old  wizendy  hag,  was  never  fit 
to  rear  a  child  to  me  itself. 

MARY  DOUL.  I  wouldn't  rear  a 
crumpled  whelp  the  like  of  you.  It's  many  a 
woman  is  married  with  finer  than  yourself 
should  be  praising  God  if  she's  no  child,  and 
isn't  loading  the  earth  with  things  would  make 
the  heavens  lonesome  above,  and  they  scaring 
the  larks,  and  the  crows,  and  the  angels  pass- 
ing in  the  sky. 


42  THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Go  on  now  to  be  seek- 
ing a  lonesome  place  where  the  earth  can  hide 
you  away;  go  on  now,  I'm  saying,  or  you'll 
be  having  men  and  women  with  their  knees 
bled,  and  they  screaming  to  God  for  a  holy 
water  would  darken  their  sight,  for  there's 
no  man  but  would  liefer  be  blind  a  hundred 
years,  or  a  thousand  itself,  than  to  be  looking 
on  your  like. 

MARY  DOUL  —  raising  her  stick. — May- 
be if  I  hit  you  a  strong  blow  you'd  be  blind 

again,  and  having  what  you  want 

[The  Saint  is  seen  in  the  church  door 
with  his  head  bent  in  prayer. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  raising  his  stick  and 
driving  Mary  Doul  back  towards  left. —  Let 
you  keep  off  from  me  now  if  you  wouldn't 
have  me  strike  out  the  little  handful  of  brains 
you  have  about  on  the  road. 

[He  is  going  to  strike  her,  but  Timmy 
catches  him  by  the  arm. 

TIMMY.  Have  you  no  shame  to  be  mak- 
ing a  great  row,  and  the  Saint  above  saying 
his  prayers? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  What  is  it  I  care  for 
the  like  of  him?  (Struggling  to  free  him- 
self}. Let  me  hit  her  one  good  one,  for  the 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS  43 

love  of  the  Almighty  God,  and  I'll  be  quiet 
after  till  I  die. 

TIMMY — shaking  him. —  Will  you  whisht, 
I'm  saying. 

SAINT  —  coming  forward,  centre.  —  Are 
their  minds  troubled  with  joy,  or  is  their  sight 
uncertain,  the  way  it  does  often  be  the  day  a 
person  is  restored? 

TIMMY.  It's  too  certain  their  sight  is, 
holy  father;  and  they're  after  making  a  great 
fight,  because  they're  a  pair  of  pitiful  shows. 

SAINT  —  coming  between  them.  —  May 
the  Lord  who  has  given  you  sight  send  a  little 
sense  into  your  heads,  the  way  it  won't  be  on 
your  two  selves  you'll  be  looking  —  on  two 
pitiful  sinners  of  the  earth  —  but  on  the 
splendour  of  the  Spirit  of  God,  you'll  see  an 
odd  time  shining  out  through  the  big  hills, 
and  steep  streams  falling  to  the  sea.  For  if 
it's  on  the  like  of  that  you  do  be  thinking, 
you'll  not  be  minding  the  faces  of  men,  but 
you'll  be  saying  prayers  and  great  praises,  till 
you'll  be  living  the  way  the  great  saints  do  be 
living,  with  little  but  old  sacks,  and  skin 
covering  their  bones.  (To  Timmy.)  Leave 
him  go  now,  you're  seeing  he's  quiet  again. 
(He  frees  Martin  Doul.}  And  let  you  (he 
turns  to  Mary  Doul}  not  be  raising  your 


44  THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

voice,  a  bad  thing  in  a  woman ;  but  let  the  lot 
of  you,  who  have  seen  the  power  of  the  Lord, 
be  thinking  on  it  in  the  dark  night,  and  be 
saying  to  yourselves  it's  great  pity  and  love 
He  has  for  the  poor,  starving  people  of 
Ireland.  (He  gathers  his  cloak  about  him.} 
And  now  the  Lord  send  blessing  to  you  all, 
for  I  am  going  on  to  Annagolan,  where  there 
is  a  deaf  woman,  and  to  Laragh,  where  there 
are  two  men  without  sense,  and  to  Glenassil, 
where  there  are  children  blind  from  their 
birth;  and  then  I'm  going  to  sleep  this  night 
in  the  bed  of  the  holy  Kevin,  and  to  be  prais- 
ing God,  and  asking  great  blessing  on  you  all. 

[He  bends  his  head. 


CURTAIN 


ACT  II 

Village  roadside,  on  left  the  door  of  a  forge, 
with  broken  wheels,  etc.,  lying  about.  A  well 
near  centre,  with  board  above  it,  and  room  to 
pass  behind  it.  Martin  Doul  is  sitting  near 
forge,  cutting  sticks. 

TIMMY  —  heard  hammering  inside  forge, 
then  calls.  —  Let  you  make  haste  out  there. 
.  .  .  I'll  be  putting  up  new  fires  at  the  turn 
of  day,  and  you  haven't  the  half  of  them  cut 
yet. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  gloomily.—  It's  de- 
stroyed I'll  be  whacking  your  old  thorns  till 
the  turn  of  day,  and  I  with  no  food  in  my 
stomach  would  keep  the  life  in  a  pig.  (He 
turns  towards  the  door.)  Let  you  come  out 
here  and  cut  them  yourself  if  you  want  them 
cut,  for  there's  an  hour  every  day  when  a 
man  has  a  right  to  his  rest. 

TIMMY  —  coming  out,  with  a  hammer, 
impatiently.  —  Do  you  want  me  to  be  driving 
you  off  again  to  be  walking  the  roads  ?  There 
you  are  now,  and  I  giving  you  your  food,  and 
a  corner  to  sleep,  and  money  with  it;  and,  to 
hear  the  talk  of  you,  you'd  think  I  was  after 
beating  you,  or  stealing  your  gold. 


46  THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

MARTIN  DOUL.  You'd  do  it  handy, 
maybe,  if  I'd  gold  to  steal. 

TIMMY  —  throws  down  hammer;  picks 
up  some  of  the  sticks  already  cut,  and  throws 
them  into  door.}  There's  no  fear  of  your 
having  gold  —  a  lazy,  basking  fool  the  like 
of  you. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  No  fear,  maybe,  and 
I  here  with  yourself,  for  it's  more  I  got  a 
while  since  and  I  sitting  blinded  in  Grianan, 
than  I  get  in  this  place  working  hard,  and 
destroying  myself,  the  length  of  the  day. 

TIMMY  —  stopping  with  amazement.  — 
Working  hard?  (He  goes  over  to  him.}  I'll 
teach  you  to  work  hard,  Martin  Doul.  Strip 
off  your  coat  now,  and  put  a  tuck  in  your 
sleeves,  and  cut  the  lot  of  them,  while  I'd  rake 
the  ashes  from  the  forge,  or  I'll  not  put  up 
with  you  another  hour  itself. 

MARTIN  DOUL  -  -  horrified.  —  Would 
you  have  me  getting  my  death  sitting  out  in 
the  black  wintry  air  with  no  coat  on  me  at  all  ? 

TIMMY  —  with  authority.  —  Strip  it  off 
now,  or  walk  down  upon  the  road. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  bitterly.  —  Oh,  God 
help  me!  (He  begins  taking  off  his  coat.} 
I've  heard  tell  you  stripped  the  sheet  from 
your  wife  and  you  putting  her  down  into  the 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          47 

grave,  and  that  there  isn't  the  like  of  you  for 
plucking  your  living  ducks,  the  short  days, 
and  leaving  them  running  round  in  their  skins, 
in  the  great  rains  and  the  cold.  (He  tucks  up 
his  sleeves.)  Ah,  I've  heard  a  power  of  queer 
things  of  yourself,  and  there  isn't  one  of  them 
I'll  not  believe  from  this  day,  and  be  telling 
to  the  boys. 

TIMMY  —  pulling  over  a  big  stick. —  Let 
you  cut  that  now,  and  give  me  rest  from  your 
talk,  for  I'm  not  heeding  you  at  all. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  taking  stick.—  That's 
a  hard,  terrible  stick,  Timmy;  and  isn't  it  a 
poor  thing  to  be  cutting  strong  timber  the  like 
of  that,  when  it's  cold  the  bark  is,  and  slippy 
with  the  frost  of  the  air? 

TIMMY  —  gathering  up  another  armful 
of  sticks. —  What  way  wouldn't  it  be  cold,  and 
it  freezing  since  the  moon  was  changed? 

[He  goes  into  forge. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  querulously,  as  he  cuts 
slowly. —  What  way,  indeed,  Timmy?  For 
it's  a  raw,  beastly  day  we  do  have  each  day, 
till  I  do  be  thinking  it's  well  for  the  blind 
don't  be  seeing  them  gray  clouds  driving  on 
the  hill,  and  don't  be  looking  on  people  with 
their  noses  red,  the  like  of  your  nose,  and 


48          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

their  eyes  weeping  and  watering,  the  like  of 
your  eyes,  God  help  you,  Timmy  the  smith. 

TIMMY  —  seen  blinking  in  doorway. —  Is 
it  turning  now  you  are  against  your  sight? 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  very  miserably.— It's 
a  hard  thing  for  a  man  to  have  his  sight,  and 
he  living  near  to  the  like  of  you  (he  cuts  a 
stick  and  throws  it  away},  or  wed  with  a  wife 
(cuts  a  stick}  ;  and  I  do  be  thinking  it  should 
be  a  hard  thing  for  the  Almighty  God  to  be 
looking  on  the  world,  bad  days,  and  on  men 
the  like  of  yourself  walking  around  on  it,  and 
they  slipping  each  way  in  the  muck. 

TIMMY  —  with  pot-hooks  which  he  taps 
on  anvil. —  You'd  have  a  right  to  be  minding, 
Martin  Doul,  for  it's  a  power  the  Saint  cured 
lose  their  sight  after  a  while.  Mary  Doul's 
dimming  again,  I've  heard  them  say;  and  I'm 
thinking  the  Lord,  if  he  hears  you  making 
that  talk,  will  have  little  pity  left  for  you  at 
all. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  There's  not  a  bit  of 
fear  of  me  losing  my  sight,  and  if  it's  a  dark 
day  itself  it's  too  well  I  see  every  wicked 
wrinkle  you  have  round  by  your  eye. 

TIMMY  —  looking  at  him  sharply. —  The 
day's  not  dark  since  the  clouds  broke  in  the 
east. 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          49 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Let  you  not  be  tor- 
menting yourself  trying  to  make  me  afeard. 
You  told  me  a  power  of  bad  lies  the  time 
I  was  blind,  and  it's  right  now  for  you 
to  stop,  and  be  taking  your  rest  (Mary  Doul 
conies  in  unnoticed  on  right  with  a  sack  filled 
with  green  stuff  on  her  arm},  for  it's  little 
ease  or  quiet  any  person  would  get  if  the 
big  fools  of  Ireland  weren't  weary  at  times. 
(He  looks  up  and  sees  Mary  Doul.}  Oh. 
glory  be  to  God,  she's  coming  again. 

[He  begins  to  work  busily  with  his  back 
to  her. 

TIMMY  —  amused,  to  Mary  Doul,  as  she 
is  going  by  without  looking  at  them. —  Look 
on  him  now,  Mary  Doul.  You'd  be  a  great 
one  for  keeping  him  steady  at  his  work,  for 
he's  after  idling  and  blathering  to  this  hour 
from  the  dawn  of  day. 

MARY  DOUL  —  stiff ly.—  Of  what  is  it 
you're  speaking,  Timmy  the  smith? 

TIMMY  —  laughing. —  Of  himself,  surely. 
Look  on  him  there,  and  he  with  the  shirt  on 
him  ripping  from  his  back.  You'd  have  a 
right  to  come  round  this  night,  I'm  thinking, 
and  put  a  stitch  into  his  clothes,  for  it's  long 
enough  you  are  not  speaking  one  to  the  other. 


50          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

MARY  DOUL.  Let  the  two  of  you  not 
torment  me  at  all. 

[She  goes  out  left,  with  her  head  in  the 
air. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  stops  work  and  looks 
after  her. —  Well,  isn't  it  a  queer  thing  she 
can't  keep  herself  two  days  without  looking 
on  my  face? 

TIMMY  —  jeeringly. —  Looking  on  your 
face  is  it?  And  she  after  going  by  with  her 
head  turned  the  way  you'd  see  a  priest  going 
where  there'd  be  a  drunken  man  in  the  side 
ditch  talking  with  a  girl.  (Martin  Doul  gets 
up  and  goes  to  corner  of  forge,  and  looks 
out  left.}  Come  back  here  and  don't  mind 
her  at  all.  Come  back  here,  I'm  saying, 
you've  no  call  to  be  spying  behind  her  since 
she  went  off,  and  left  you,  in  place  of  break- 
ing her  heart,  trying  to  keep  you  in  the 
decency  of  clothes  and  food. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  crying  out  indignant- 
ly.—  You  know  rightly,  Timmy,  it  was  my- 
self drove  her  away. 

TIMMY.  That's  a  lie  you're  telling,  yet 
it's  little  I  care  which  one  of  you  was  driving 
the  other,  and  let  you  walk  back  here,  I'm 
saying,  to  your  work. 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          51 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  turning  round. —  I'm 
coming,  surely. 

[He  stops  and  looks  out  right,  going  a 
step  or  two  towards  centre. 

TIMMY.  On  what  is  it  you're  gaping, 
Martin  Doul? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  There's  a  person  walk- 
ing above.  .  .  .  It's  Molly  Byrne,  I'm  think- 
ing, coming  down  with  her  can. 

TIMMY.  If  she  is  itself  let  you  not  be 
idling  this  day,  or  minding  her  at  all,  and  let 
you  hurry  with  them  sticks,  for  I'll  want  you 
in  a  short  while  to  be  blowing  in  the  forge. 

[He  throws  down  pot-hooks. 

MARTIN  DOUL  — crying  out.— Is  it 
roasting  me  now  you'd  be?  (Turns  back  and 
sees  pot-hooks;  he  takes  them  up.)  Pot- 
hooks? Is  it  over  them  you've  been  inside 
sneezing  and  sweating  since  the  dawn  of  day? 

TIMMY  —  resting  himself  on  anvil,  with 
satisfaction. —  I'm  making  a  power  of  things 
you  do  have  when  you're  settling  with  a  wife, 
Martin  Doul ;  for  I  heard  tell  last  night  the 
Saint'll  be  passing  again  in  a  short  while,  and 
I'd  have  him  wed  Molly  with  myself.  .  .  . 
He'd  do  it,  I've  heard  them  say,  for  not  a 
penny  at  all. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  lays  down  hooks  and 


52          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

looks  at  him  steadily. —  Molly'll  be  saying 
great  praises  now  to  the  Almighty  God  and 
He  giving  her  a  fine,  stout,  hardy  man  the 
like  of  you. 

TIMMY  —  uneasily. —  And  why  wouldn't 
she,  if  she's  a  fine  woman  itself? 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  looking  up  right.— 
Why  wouldn't  she,  indeed,  Timmy?  .... 
The  Almighty  God's  made  a  fine  match  in  the 
two  of  you,  for  if  you  went  marrying  a 
woman  was  the  like  of  yourself  you'd  be 
having  the  fearfullest  little  children,  I'm 
thinking,  was  ever  seen  in  the  world. 

TIMMY  —  seriously  offended. —  God  for- 
give you!  if  you're  an  ugly  man  to  be  looking 
at,  I'm  thinking  your  tongue's  worse  than 
your  view. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  hurt  also.— Isn't  it 
destroyed  with  the  cold  I  am,  and  if  I'm  ugly 
itself  I  never  seen  anyone  the  like  of  you  for 
dreepiness  this  day,  Timmy  the  smith,  and 
I'm  thinking  now  herself's  coming  above 
you'd  have  a  right  to  step  up  into  your  old 
shanty,  and  give  a  rub  to  your  face,  and  not 
be  sitting  there  with  your  bleary  eyes,  and 
your  big  nose,  the  like  of  an  old  scarecrow 
stuck  down  upon  the  road. 

TIMMY  —  looking  up  the  road  uneasily. — 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          53 

She's  no  call  to  mind  what  way  I  look,  and  I 
after  building  a  house  with  four  rooms  in  it 
above  on  the  hill.  (He  stands  up.)  But  it's 
a  queer  thing  the  way  yourself  and  Mary  Doul 
are  after  setting  every  person  in  this  place, 
and  up  beyond  to  Rathvanna,  talking  of 
nothing,  and  thinking  of  nothing,  but  the  way 
they  do  be  looking  in  the  face.  (Going 
towards  forge.)  It's  the  devil's  work  you're 
after  doing  with  your  talk  of  fine  looks,  and 
I'd  do  right,  maybe,  to  step  in  and  wash  the 
blackness  from  my  eyes. 

[He  goes  into  forge.  Martin  Doul  rubs 
his  face  furtively  with  the  tail  of  his 
coat.  Molly  Byrne  comes  on  right 
with  a  water-can,  and  begins  to  fill  it 
at  the  well. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  God  save  you,  Molly 
Byrne. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  indifferently.—  God 
save  you. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  That's  a  dark,  gloomy 
day,  and  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  us  all. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.     Middling  dark. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  It's  a  power  of  dirty 
days,  and  dark  mornings,  and  shabby-looking 
fellows  (he  makes  a  gesture  over  his 


54          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

shoulder)  we  do  have  to  be  looking  on  when 
we  have  our  sight,  God  help  us,  but  there's 
one  fine  thing  we  have,  to  be  looking  on  a 
grand,  white,  handsome  girl,  the  like  of  you 
....  and  every  time  i  set  my  eyes  on  you 
I  do  be  blessing  the  saints,  and  the  holy  water, 
and  the  power  of  the  Lord  Almighty  in  the 
heavens  above. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  I've  heard  the  priests 
say  it  isn't  looking  on  a  young  girl  would 
teach  many  to  be  saying  their  prayers. 

[Bailing  water  into  her  can  with  a  cup. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  It  isn't  many  have 
been  the  way  I  was,  hearing  your  voice  speak- 
ing, and  not  seeing  you  at  all. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  That  should  have  been 
a  queer  time  for  an  old,  wicked,  coaxing  fool 
to  be  sitting  there  with  your  eyes  shut,  and 
not  seeing  a  sight  of  girl  or  woman  passing 
the  road. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  If  it  was  a  queer  time 
itself  it  was  great  joy  and  pride  I  had  the  time 
I'd  hear  your  voice  speaking  and  you  passing 
to  Grianan  (beginning  to  speak  with  plaintive 
intensity),  for  it's  of  many  a  fine  thing  your 
voice  would  put  a  poor  dark  fellow  in  mind, 
and  the  day  I'd  hear  it  it's  of  little  else  at  all 
I  would  be  thinking. 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS  55 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  I'll  tell  your  wife  if 
you  talk  to  me  the  like  of  that.  .  .  .  You've 
heard,  maybe,  she's  below  picking  nettles  for 
the  widow  O'Flinn,  who  took  great  pity  on 
her  when  she  seen  the  two  of  you  fighting, 
and  yourself  putting  shame  on  her  at  the 
crossing  of  the  roads. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  impatiently.  —  Is 
there  no  living  person  can  speak  a  score  of 
words  to  me,  or  say  "  God  speed  you,"  itself, 
without  putting  me  in  mind  of  the  old  woman, 
or  that  day  either  at  Grianan? 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  maliciously. —  I  was 
thinking  it  should  be  a  fine  thing  to  put  you 
in  mind  of  the  day  you  called  the  grand  day 
of  your  life. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Grand  day,  is  it? 
(Plaintively  again,  throwing  aside  his  work, 
and  leaning  towards  her.}  Or  a  bad  black  day 
when  I  was  roused  up  and  found  I  was  the 
like  of  the  little  children  do  be  listening  to 
the  stories  of  an  old  woman,  and  do  be  dream- 
ing after  in  the  dark  night  that  it's  in  grand 
houses  of  gold  they  are,  with  speckled  horses 
to  ride,  and  do  be  waking  again,  in  a  short 
while,  and  they  destroyed  with  the  cold,  and 
the  thatch  dripping,  maybe,  and  the  starved 
ass  braying  in  the  yard? 


56          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  working  indifferent- 
ly.—  You've  great  romancing  this  day,  Mar- 
tin Doul.  Was  it  up  at  the  still  you  were 
at  the  fall  of  night? 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  stands  up,  comes  to- 
wards her,  but  stands  at  far  (right)  side  of 
well. —  It  was  not,  Molly  Byrne,  but  lying 
down  in  a  little  rickety  shed.  .  .  .  Lying  down 
across  a  sop  of  straw,  and  I  thinking  I  was 
seeing  you  walk,  and  hearing  the  sound  of 
your  step  on  a  dry  road,  and  hearing  you 
again,  and  you  laughing  and  making  great 
talk  in  a  high  room  with  dry  timber  lining  the 
roof.  For  it's  a  fine  sound  your  voice  has 
that  time,  and  it's  better  I  am,  I'm  thinking, 
lying  down,  the  way  a  blind  man  does  be 
lying,  than  to  be  sitting  here  in  the  gray  light 
taking  hard  words  of  Timmy  the  smith. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  looking  at  him  with 
interest. —  It's  queer  talk  you  have  if  it's  a 
little,  old,  shabby  stump  of  a  man  you  are 
itself. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  I'm  not  so  old  as  you 
do  hear  them  say. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  You're  old,  I'm  think- 
ing, to  be  talking  that  talk  with  a  girl. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  despondingly.—  It's 
not  a  lie  you're  telling,  maybe,  for  it's  long 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          57 

years  I'm  after  losing  from  the  world,  feeling 
love  and  talking  love,  with  the  old  woman, 
and  I  fooled  the  whole  while  with  the  lies  of 
Timmy  the  smith. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  half  invitingly.— It's 
a  fine  way  you're  wanting  to  pay  Timmy  the 
smith.  .  .  .  And  it's  not  his  lies  you're  mak- 
ing love  to  this  day,  Martin  Doul. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  It  is  not,  Molly,  and 
the  Lord  forgive  us  all.  (He  passes  behind 
her  and  comes  near  her  left.}  For  I've  heard 
tell  there  are  lands  beyond  in  Cahir  Iveraghig 
and  the  Reeks  of  Cork  with  warm  sun  in 
them,  and  fine  light  in  the  sky.  (Bending 
towards  her.}  And  light's  a  grand  thing  for 
a  man  ever  was  blind,  or  a  woman,  with  a 
fine  neck,  and  a  skin  on  her  the  like  of  you, 
the  way  we'd  have  a  right  to  go  off  this  day 
till  we'd  have  a  fine  life  passing  abroad 
through  them  towns  of  the  south,  and  we  tell- 
ing stories,  maybe,  or  singing  songs  at  the 
fairs. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  turning  round  half 
amused,  and  looking  him  over  from  head  to 
foot. —  Well,  isn't  it  a  queer  thing  when  your 
own  wife's  after  leaving  you  because  you're 
a  pitiful  show,  you'd  talk  the  like  of  that  to 
me? 


58  THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  drawing  back  a  little, 
hurt,  but  indignant.  —  It's  a  queer  thing,  may- 
be, for  all  things  is  queer  in  the  world.  (In 
a  low  voice  with  peculiar  emphasis.}  But 
there's  one  thing  I'm  telling  you,  if  she  walked 
off  away  from  me,  it  wasn't  because  of  seeing 
me,  and  I  no  more  than  I  am,  but  because  I 
was  looking  on  her  with  my  two  eyes,  and  she 
getting  up,  vand  eating  her  food,  and  combing 
her  hair,  and  lying  down  for  her  sleep. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  interested,  off  her 
guard.  —  Wouldn't  any  married  man  you'd 
have  be  doing  the  like  of  that? 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  seizing  the  moment 
that  he  has  her  attention.  —  I'm  thinking  by 
the  mercy  of  God  it's  few  sees  anything  but 
them  is  blind  for  a  space  (with  excitement.} 
It's  a  few  sees  the  old  woman  rotting  for  the 
grave,  and  it's  few  sees  the  like  of  yourself. 
(He  bends  over  her.}  Though  it's  shining 
you  are,  like  a  high  lamp  would  drag  in  the 
ships  out  of  the  sea. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  shrinking  away  from 
him.  —  Keep  off  from  me,  Martin  Doul. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  quickly,  with  low, 
furious  intensity.  —  It's  the  truth  I'm  telling 
you.  (He  puts  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and 
shakes  her.}  And  you'd  do  right  not  to 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS  59 

marry  a  man  is  after  looking  out  a  long  while 
on  the  bad  days  of  the  world;  for  what  way 
would  the  like  of  him  have  fit  eyes  to  look  on 
yourself,  when  you  rise  up  in  the  morning 
and  come  out  of  the  little  door  you  have  above 
in  the  lane,  the  time  it'd  be  a  fine  thing  if  a 
man  would  be  seeing,  and  losing  his  sight,  the 
way  he'd  have  your  two  eyes  facing  him,  and 
he  going  the  roads,  and  shining  above  him, 
and  he  looking  in  the  sky,  and  springing  up 
from  the  earth,  the  time  he'd  lower  his  head, 
in  place  of  the  muck  that  seeing  men  do  meet 
all  roads  spread  on  the  world. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  who  has  listened  half 
mesmerised,  starting  away. —  It's  the  like  of 
that  talk  you'd  hear  from  a  man  would  be 
losing  his  mind. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  going  after  her,  pass- 
ing to  her  right. —  It'd  be  little  wonder  if  a 
man  near  the  like  of  you  would  be  losing  his 
mind.  Put  down  your  can  now,  and  come 
along  with  myself,  for  I'm  seeing  you  this 
day,  seeing  you,  maybe,  the  way  no  man  has 
seen  you  in  the  world.  (He  takes  her  by  the 
arm  and  trys  to  pull  her  away  softly  to  the 
right.}  Let  you  come  on  now,  I'm  saying,  to 
tV  lands  of  Iveragh  and  the  Reeks  of  Cork, 
v/here  you  won't  set  down  the  width  of  your 


60          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

two  feet  and  not  be  crushing  fine  flowers,  and 
making  sweet  smells  in  the  air. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  laying  down  the  can; 
trying  to  free  herself. —  Leave  me  go,  Martin 
Doul!  Leave  me  go,  I'm  saying! 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Let  you  not  be  fool- 
ing. Come  along  now  the  little  path  through 
the  trees. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  crying  out  towards 
forge. —  Timmy  —  Timmy  the  smith. 
(Timmy  comes  out  of  forge,  and  Martin  Doul 
lets  her  go.  Molly  Byrne,  excited  and  breath- 
less, pointing  to  Martin  Doul.}  Did  ever  you 
hear  that  them  that  loses  their  sight  loses  their 
senses  along  with  it,  Timmy  the  smith ! 

TIMMY  —  suspicious,  but  uncertain.  — 
He's  no  sense,  surely,  and  he'll  be  having  him- 
self driven  off  this  day  from  where  he's  good 
sleeping,  and  feeding,  and  wages  for  his  work. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  as  before.— He's  a 
bigger  fool  than  that,  Timmy.  Look  on  him 
now,  and  tell  me  if  that  isn't  a  grand  fellow 
to  think  he's  only  to  open  his  mouth  to  have 
a  fine  woman,  the  like  of  me,  running  along 
by  his  heels. 

[Martin  Doul  recoils  towards  centre, 
with  his  hand  to  his  eyes;  Mary  Doul 
is  seen  on  left  coming  forward  softly. 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS  61 

TIMMY  —  with  blank  amazement.  —  Oh, 
the  blind  is  wicked  people,  and  it's  no  lie. 
But  he'll  walk  off  this  day  and  not  be  troub- 
ling us  more. 

[Turns  back  left  and  picks  up  Martin 
D oul's  coat  and  stick;  some  things  fall 
out  of  coat  pocket,  which  he  gathers 
up  again. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  turns  around,  sees 
Mary  Doul,  whispers  to  Molly  Byrne  with 
imploring  agony.  —  Let  you  not  put  shame  on 
me,  Molly,  before  herself  and  the  smith.  Let 
you  not  put  shame  on  me  and  I  after  saying 
fine  words  to  you,  and  dreaming  .  .  .  dreams 
....  in  the  night.  (He  hesitates,  and  looks 
round  the  sky.}  Is  it  a  storm  of  thunder  is 
coming,  or  the  last  end  of  the  world?  (He 
staggers  towards  Mary  Doul,  tripping  slightly 
over  tin  can.}  The  heavens  is  closing,  I'm 
thinking,  with  darkness  and  great  trouble 
passing  in  the  sky.  (He  reaches  Mary  Doul, 
and  seizes  her  left  arm  with  both  his  hands  — 
with  a  frantic  cry.}  Is  it  darkness  of  thunder 
is  coming,  Mary  Doul!  Do  you  see  me  clear- 
ly with  your  eyes? 

MARY  DOUL  —  snatches  her  arm  away, 
and  hits  him  with  empty  sack  across  the  face. 


62          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

—  I  see  you  a  sight  too  clearly,  and  let  you 
keep  off  from  me  now. 

MOLLY   BYRNE  —  clapping  her  hands. 

—  That's  right,   Mary.     That's  the  way  to 
treat  the  like  of  him  is  after  standing  there  at 
my  feet  and  asking  me  to  go  off  with  him, 
till  I'd  grow  an  old  v/retched  road-woman  the 
like  of  yourself. 

MARY  DOUL  —  defiantly.—  When  the 
skin  shrinks  on  your  chin,  Molly  Byrne,  there 
won't  be  the  like  of  you  for  a  shrunk  hag  in 
the  four  quarters  of  Ireland.  .  .  .  It's  a  fine 
pair  you'd  be,  surely! 

[Martin  Doul  is  standing  at  back  right 
centre,  with  his  back  to  the  audience. 

TIMMY  —  coming  over  to  Mary  Doul. — 
Is  it  no  shame  you  have  to  let  on  she'd  ever 
be  the  like  of  you? 

MARY  DOUL.  It's  them  that's  fat  and 
flabby  do  be  wrinkled  young,  and  that  whitish 
yellowy  hair  she  has  does  be  soon  turning  the 
like  of  a  handful  of  thin  grass  you'd  see  rot- 
ting, where  the  wet  lies,  at  the  north  of  a  sty. 
(Turning  to  go  out  on  right.}  Ah,  it's  a 
better  thing  to  have  a  simple,  seemly  face,  the 
like  of  my  face,  for  two-score  years,  or  fifty 
itself,  than  to  be  setting  fools  mad  a  short 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          63 

while,  and  then  to  be  turning  a  thing  would 
drive  off  the  little  children  from  your  feet. 

[She  goes  out;  Martin  Doul  has  come 
forward  again,  mastering  himself,  but 
uncertain. 

TIMMY.  Oh,  God  protect  us,  Molly, 
from  the  words  of  the  blind.  (He  throws 
down  Martin  Doul's  coat  and  stick.}  There's 
your  old  rubbish  now,  Martin  Doul,  and  let 
you  take  it  up,  for  it's  all  you  '  ave,  and  walk 
off  through  the  world,  for  if  ever  I  meet  you 
coming  again,  if  it's  seeing  or  blind  you  are 
itself,  I'll  bring  out  the  big  hammer  and  hit 
you  a  welt  with  it  will  leave  you  easy  till  the 
judgment  day. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  rousing  himself  with 
an  effort. —  WJiat  call  have  you  to  talk  the 
like  of  that  with  myself? 

TIMMY  —  pointing  to  Molly  Byrne. — 
It's  well  you  know  what  call  I  have.  It's  well 
you  know  a  decent  girl,  I'm  thinking  to  wed, 
has  no  right  to  have  her  heart  scalded  with 
hearing  talk  —  and  queer,  bad  talk,  I'm 
thinking  —  from  a  raggy-looking  fool  the 
like  of  you. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  raising  his  voice.— 
It's  making  game  of  you  she  is,  for  what  see- 


64          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 


mS  g^l  would  marry  with  yourself?  Look 
on  him,  Molly,  look  on  him,  I'm  saying,  for 
I'm  seeing  him  still,  and  let  you  raise  your 
voice,  for  the  time  is  come,  and  bid  him  go 
up  into  his  forge,  and  be  sitting  there  by  him- 
self, sneezing  and  sweating,  and  he  beating 
pot-hooks  till  the  judgment  day. 

[He  seizes  her  arm  again. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  Keep  him  off  from 
me,  Timmy! 

TIMMY  —  pushing  Martin  Doul  aside.  — 
Would  you  have  me  strike  you,  Martin  Doul  ? 
Go  along  now  after  your  wife,  who's  a  fit 
match  for  you,  and  leave  Molly  with  myself. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  despairing!  y.— 
Won't  you  raise  your  voice,  Molly,  and  lay 
hell's  long  curse  on  his  tongue? 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  on  Timmy'  s  left.— 
I'll  be  telling  him  it's  destroyed  I  am  with  the 
sight  of  you  and  the  sound  of  your  voice.  Go 
off  now  after  your  wife,  and  if  she  beats  you 
again,  let  you  go  after  the  tinker  girls  is  above 
running  the  hills,  or  down  among  the  sluts  of 
the  town,  and  you'll  learn  one  day,  maybe, 
the  way  a  man  should  speak  with  a  well- 
reared,  civil  girl  the  like  of  me.  (She  takes 
Timmy  by  the  arm.}  Come  up  now  into  the 
forge  till  he'll  be  gone  down  a  bit  on  the  road, 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS  65 

for  it's  near  afeard  I  am  of  the  wild  look  he 
has  come  in  his  eyes. 

[She  goes  into  the  forge.     Timmy  stops 

in  the  doorway. 

TIMMY.  Let  me  not  find  you  out  here 
again,  Martin  Doul.  (He  bares  his  arm.') 
It's  well  you  know  Timmy  the  smith  has 
great  strength  in  his  arm,  and  it's  a  power  of 
things  it  has  broken  a  sight  harder  than  the 
old  bone  of  your  skull. 

[He  goes  into   the  forge  and  pulls  the 

door  after  him. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  stands  a  moment  with 
his  hand  to  his  eyes. —  And  that's  the  last 
thing  I'm  to  set  my  sight  on  in  the  life  of  the 
world  —  the  villainy  of  a  woman  and  the 
bloody  strength  of  •>.  man.  Oh,  God,  pity  a 
poor,  blind  fellow,  the  way  I  ^i  this  day  with 
no  strength  in  me  to  do  hurt  to  them  at  all. 
(He  begins  groping  about  for  a  moment,  then 
stops.}  Yet  if  I've  no  strength  in  me  I've  a 
voice  left  for  my  prayers,  and  may  God 
blight  them  this  day,  and  my  own  soul  the 
same  hour  with  them,  the  way  I'll  see  them 
after,  Molly  Byrne  and  Timmy  the  smith,  the 
two  of  them  on  a  1  igh  bed,  and  they  screech- 
ing in  hell.  .  .  It'll  be  a  grand  thing  that 


66          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

time  to  look  on  the  two  of  them;  and  they 
twisting  and  roaring  out,  and  twisting  and 
roaring  again,  one  day  and  the  next  day,  and 
each  day  always  and  ever.  It's  not  blind 
I'll  be  that  time,  and  it  won't  be  hell  to  me, 
I'm  thinking,  but  the  like  of  heaven  itself; 
and  it's  fine  care  I'll  be  taking  the  Lord 
Almighty  doesn't  know. 

[He  turns  to  grope  out. 


CURTAIN 


ACT  III 

The  same  Scene  as  in  first  Act,  but  gap  in 
centre  has  been  filled  with  briars,  or  branches 
of  some  sort.  Mary  Doul,  blind  again,  gropes 
her  way  in  on  left,  and  sits  as  before.  She 
has  a  few  rushes  with  her.  It  is  an  early 
spring  day. 

MARY  DOUL  —  mournfully.  —  Ah,  God 
help  me  .  .  .  God  help  me;  the  blackness 
wasn't  so  black  at  all  the  other  time  as  it  is 
this  time,  and  it's  destroyed  I'll  be  now,  and 
hard  set  to  get  my  living  working  alone,  when 
it's  few  are  passing  and  the  winds  are  cold. 
(She  begins  shredding  rushes.}  I'm  think- 
ing short  days  will  be  long  days  to  me  from 
this  time,  and  I  sitting  here,  not  seeing  a  blink, 
or  hearing  a  word,  and  no  thought  in  my 
mind  but  long  prayers  that  Martin  Doul'll  get 
his  reward  in  a  short  while  for  the  villainy  of 
his  heart.  It's  great  jokes  the  people'll  be 
making  now,  I'm  thinking,  and  they  pass  me 
by,  pointing  their  fingers  maybe,  and  asking 
what  place  is  himself,  the  way  it's  no  quiet 
or  decency  I'll  have  from  this  day  till  I'm  an 
old  woman  with  long  white  hair  and  it  twist- 
ing from  my  brow.  (She  fumbles  with  her 


68  THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

hair,  and  then  seems  to  hear  something.  Lis- 
tens for  a  moment.}  There's  a  queer,  slouch- 
ing step  coming  on  the  road.  .  .  .  God  help 
me,  he's  coming  surely. 

[She  stays  perfectly  quiet.    Martin  Doul 
gropes  in  on  right,  blind  also. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  gloomily.— _The_devil_ 

mend  Mary  Doul  for  putting  lies  on  me,  and 
i          «_> 

letting  on  she  was  grand.  The  devil  mend  the 
old  Saint  for  letting  me  see  it  was  lies.  (He 
sits  down  near  her.)  The  devil  mend  Timmy 
the  smith  for  killing  me  with  hard  work,  and 
keeping  me  with  an  empty,  windy  stomach  in 
me,  in  the  day  and  in  the  night.  Ten  thousand 
devils  mend  the  soul  of  Molly  Byrne — (Mary 
Doul  nods  her  head  with  approval) — and 
the  bad,  wicked  souls  is  hidden  in  all  the 
women  of  the  world.  (He  rocks  himself, 
with  his  hand  over  his  face.)  It's  lonesome 
I'll  be  from  this  day,  and  if  living  people  is 
a  bad  lot,  yet  Mary  Doul,  herself,  and  she  a 
dirty,  wrinkled-looking  hag,  was  better  maybe 
to  be  sitting  along  with  than  no  one  at  all. 
I'll  be  getting  my  death  now,  I'm  thinking, 
sitting  alone  in  the  cold  air,  hearing  the  night 
coming,  and  the  blackbirds  flying  round  in 
the  briars  crying  to  themselves,  the  time  you'll 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          69 

hear  one  cart  getting  off  a  long  way  in  the 
east,  and  another  cart  getting  off  a  long  way 
in  the  west,  and  a  dog  barking  maybe,  and 
a  little  wind  turning  the  sticks.  (He  listens 
and  sighs  heavily.}  I'll  be  destroyed  sitting 
alone  and  losing  my  senses  this  time  the  way 
I'm  after  losing  my  sight,  for  h'd  make  any 
person  afeard  to  ue  sitting  up  hearing  the 
sound  of  his  breath —  (he  moves  his  feet  on 
the  stones'  —  and  the  noise  of  his  feet,  when 
it's  a  power  of  queer  things  do  be  stirring, 
little  sticks  breaking,  and  the  grass  moving  — 
(Mary  Do  id  half  sighs,  and  he  turns  on  her 
in  horror}  —  till  you'd  take  your  dying  oath 
on  sun  and  moon  a  thing  was  breathing  on 
the  stones.  (He  listens  towards  her  for  a 
moment,  then  starts  up  nervously,  and  gropes 
about  for  his  stick.}  I'll  be  going  now,  I'm 
thinking,  but  I'm  not  sure  what  place  my 
stick's  in,  and  I'm  destroyed  with  terror  and 
dread.  (He  touches  her  face  as  he  is  groping 
about  and  cries  out.}  There's  a  thing  with  a 
cold,  living  face  on  it  sitting  up  at  my  side. 
(He  turns  to  run  away,  but  misses  his  path 
and  stumbles  in  against  the  wall.}  My  road 
is  lost  on  me  now!  Oh,  merciful  God,  set  my 
foot  on  the  path  this  day,  and  I'll  be  saying 
prayers  morning  and  night,  and  not  straining 


•jo  THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

my  ear  after  young  girls,  or  doing  any  bad 
thing  till  I  die . 

MARY  DOUL  —  indignantly.  —  Let  you 
not  be  telling  lies  to  the  Almighty  God. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Mary  Doul,  is  it? 
(Recovering  himself  with  immense  relief.) 
Is  it  Mary  Doul,  I'm  saying? 

MARY  DOUL.  There's  a  sweet  tone  in 
your  voice  I've  not  heard  for  a  space.  You're 
taking  me  for  Molly  Byrne,  I'm  thinking. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  coming  towards  her, 
wiping  sweat  from  his  face.  —  Well,  sight's 
a  queer  thing  for  upsetting  a  man.  It's  a 
queer  thing  to  think  I'd  live  to  this  day  to  be 
fearing  the  like  of  you;  but  if  it's  shaken  I 
am  for  a  short  while,  I'll  soon  be  coming  to 
myself. 

MARY  DOUL.  You'll  be  grand  then,  and 
it's  no  lie. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  sitting  down  shyly, 
some  way  off.  —  You've  no  call  to  be  talking, 
for  I've  heard  tell  you're  as  blind  as  myself. 

MARY  DOUL.  If  I  am  I'm  bearing  in 
mind  I'm  married  to  a  little  dark  stump  of  a 
fellow  looks  the  fool  of  the  world,  and  I'll 
be  bearing  in  mind  from  this  day  the  great 
hullabuloo  he's  after  making  from  hearing  a 
poor  woman  breathing  quiet  in  her  place. 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS  71 

MARTIN  DOUL.  And  you'll  be  bearing 
in  mind,  I'm  thinking,  what  you  seen  a  while 
back  when  you  looked  down  into  a  well,  or  a 
clear  pool,  maybe,  when  there  was  no  wind 
stirrinp-  and  a  good  light  in  the  sky. 

MARY  DOUL.  I'm  minding  that  surely, 
for  if  I'm  not  the  way  the  liars  were  saying 
below  I  seen  a  thing  in  them  pools  put  joy 
and  blessing  in  my  heart. 

[She  puts  her  hand  to  her  hair  again. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  laughing  ironically. — 
Well,  they  were  saying  below  I  was  losing  my 
senses,  but  I  never  went  any  day  the  length 
of  that.  .  .  .  God  help  you,  Mary  Doul,  if 
you're  not  a  wonder  for  looks,  you're  the  mad- 
dest female  woman  is  walking  the  counties  of 
the  east. 

MARY  DOUL  —  scornfully. —  You  were 
saying  all  times  you'd  a  great  ear  for  hearing 
the  lies  of  the  world.  A  great  ear,  God  help 
you,  and  you  think  you're  using  it  now. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  If  it's  not  lies  you're 
telling  would  you  have  me  think  you're  not 
a  wrinkled  poor  woman  is  looking  like  three 
scores,  or  two  scores  and  a  half! 

MARY  DOUL.  I  would  not,  Martin. 
(She  leans  forward  earnestly.}  For  when 
I  seen  myself  in  them  pools,  I  seen  my  hair 


72  THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

would  be  gray  or  white,  maybe,  in  a  short 
while,  and  I  seen  with  it  that  I'd  a  face  would 
be  a  great  wonder  when  it'll  have  soft  white 
hair  falling  around  it,  the  way  when  I'm  an 
old  woman  there  won't  be  the  like  of  me 
surely  in  the  seven  counties  of  the  east. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  with  real  admiration. 

—  You're  a  cute  thinking  woman,  Mary  Doul, 
and  it's  no  lie. 

MARY  DOUL  —  triumphantly.  —  I  am, 
surely,  and  I'm  telling  you  a  beautiful  white- 
haired  woman  is  a  grand  thing  to  see,  for 
I'm  told  when  Kitty  Bawn  was  selling  poteen 
below,  the  young  men  itself  would  never  tire 
to  be  looking  in  her  face. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  taking  off  his  hat  and 
feeling  his  head,  speaking  with  hesitation.  — 
Did  you  think  to  look,  Mary  Doul,  would 
there  be  a  whiteness  the  like  of  that  coming 
upon  me? 

MARY  DOUL  —  with   extreme   contempt. 

—  On  you,   God  help  you !  .   .   .    In  a  short 
while  you'll  have  a  head  on  you  as  bald  as 
an  old  turnip  you'd  see  rolling  round  in  the 
muck.     You  need  never  talk  again  of  your 
fine  looks,  Martin  Doul,  for  the  day  of  that 
talk's  gone  for  ever. 

MARTIN  DOUL.     That's  a  hard  word  to 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS  73 

be  saying,  for  I  was  thinking  if  I'd  a  bit  of 
comfort,  the  like  of  yourself,  it's  not  far  off 
we'd  be  from  the  good  days  went  before,  and 
that'd  be  a  wonder  surely.  But  I'll  never  rest 
easy,  thinking  you're  a  gray,  beautiful  woman, 
and  myself  a  pitiful  show. 

MARY  DOUL.  I  can't  help  your  looks, 
Martin  Doul.  It  wasn't  myself  made  you 
with  your  rat's  eyes,  and  your  big  ears,  and 
your  griseldy  chin. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  rubs  his  chin  ruefully, 
then  beams  with  delight.  —  There's  one  thing 
you've  forgot,  if  you're  a  cute  thinking  woman 
itself. 

MARY  DOUL.  Your  slouching  feet,  is 
it?  Or  your  hooky  neck,  or  your  two  knees 
is  black  with  knocking  one  on  the  other? 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  with  delighted  scorn. 
—  There's  talking  for  a  cute  woman.  There's 
talking,  surely! 

MARY  DOUL  —  puzzled  at  joy  of  his 
voice.  —  If  you'd  anything  but  lies  to  say 
you'd  be  talking  to  yourself. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  bursting  with  excite- 
ment. —  I've  this  to  say,  Mary  Doul.  I'll  be 
letting  my  beard  grow  in  a  short  while,  a 
beautiful,  long,  white,  silken,  streamy  beard, 
you  wouldn't  see  the  like  of  in  the  eastern 


74          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

world.  .  .  .  Ah,  a  white  beard's  a  grand 
thing  on  an  old  man,  a  grand  thing  for  mak- 
ing the  quality  stop  and  be  stretching  out  their 
hands  with  good  silver  or  gold,  and  a  beard's  a 
thing  you'll  never  have,  so  you  may  be  holding 
your  tongue. 

MARY  DOUL  —  laughing  cheerfully. — 
Well,  we're  a  great  pair,  surely,  and  it's  great 
times  we'll  have  yet,  maybe,  and  great  talking 
before  we  die. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Great  times  from  this 
day,  with  the  help  of  the  Almighty  God,  for  a 
priest  itself  would  believe  the  lies  of  an  old 
man  would  have  a  fine  white  beard  growing 
on  his  chin. 

MARY  DOUL.  There's  the  sound  of  one 
of  them  twittering  yellow  birds  do  be  coming 
in  the  spring-time  from  beyond  the  sea,  and 
there'll  be  a  fine  warmth  now  in  the  sun,  and 
a  sweetness  in  the  air,  the  way  it'll  be  a  grand 
thing  to  be  sitting  here  quiet  and  easy  smell- 
ing the  things  growing  up,  and  budding  from 
the  earth. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  I'm  smelling  the  furze 
a  while  back  sprouting  on  the  hill,  and  if  you'd 
hold  your  tongue  you'd  hear  the  lambs  of 
Grianan,  though  it's  near  drowned  their  cry- 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS  75 

ing  is  with  the  full  river  making  noises  in  the 
glen. 

MARY  DOUL  —  listens.  —  The    lambs    is 

bleating,  surely,  and  there's  cocks  and  laying 

hens  making  a  fine  stir  a  mile  off  on  the  face 

of  the  hill.     (She  starts.) 

— MARTIN  DOUL.     What's  that  is  sound- 


ing in  the  west? 

[A  faint  sound  of  a  bell  is  heard. 

MARY  DOUL.  It's  not  the  churches,  for 
the  wind's  blowing  from  the  sea. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  with  dismay.  — It's 
the  old  Saint,  I'm  thinking,  ringing  his  bell. 

MARY  DOUL.  The  Lord  protect  us 
from  the  saints  of  God!  (They  listen.)  He's 
coming  this  road,  surely. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  tentatively.—  Will  we 
be  running  off,  Mary  Doul? 

MARY  DOUL.  What  place  would  we 
run? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  There's  the  little  path 
going  up  through  the  sloughs.  ...  If  we 
reached  the  bank  above,  where  the  elders  do 
be  growing,  no  person  would  see  a  sight  of  us, 
if  it  was  a  hundred  yeomen  were  passing 
itself;  but  I'm  afeard  after  the  time  we  were 
with  our  sight  we'll  not  find  our  way  to  it  at 
all. 


76  THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

MARY  DOUL  —  standing  up.  —  You'd 
find  the  way,  surely.  You're  a  grand  man  the 
world  knows  at  finding  your  way  winter  or 
summer,  if  there  was  deep  snow  in  it  itself, 
or  thick  grass  and  leaves,  maybe,  growing 
from  the  earth. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  'taking    her    hand.- 
Come   a   bit   this   way;     it's   here    it   begins. 
(They  grope  about  gap.)       There's    a    tree 
pulled  into  the  gap,  or  a  strange  thing  hap- 
pened, since  I  was  passing  it  before. 

MARY  DOUL.  Would  we  have  a  right 
to  be  crawling  in  below  under  the  sticks? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  It's  hard  set  I  am  to 
know  what  would  be  right.  And  isn't  it  a 
poor  thing  to  be  blind  when  you  can't  run  off 
itself,  and  you  fearing  to  see? 

MARY  DOUL  —  nearly  in  tears.  —  It's  a 
poor  thing,  God  help  us,  and  what  good'll  our 
gray  hairs  be  itself,  if  we  have  our  sight,  the 
way  we'll  see  them  falling  each  day,  and  turn- 
ing dirty  in  the  rain? 

[The  bell  sounds  nearby. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  in  despair.  — He's 
coming  now,  and  we  won't  get  off  from  him 
at  all. 

MARY  DOUL.     Could  we  hide  in  the  bit 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          77 

of  a  briar  is  growing  at  the  west  butt  of  the 
church  ? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  We'll  try  that,  surely. 
(He  listens  a  moment.}  Let  you  make  haste; 
I  hear  them  trampling  in  the  wood. 

[They  grope  over  to  church. 

MARY  DOUL.  It's  the  words  of  the 
young  girls  making  a  great  stir  in  the  trees. 
(They  find  the  bush.)  Here's  the  briar  on 
my  left,  Martin;  I'll  go  in  first,  I'm  the  big 
one,  and  I'm  easy  to  see. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  turning  his  head  anx- 
iousfy. —  It's  easy  heard  you  are ;  and  will  you 
be  holding  your  tongue? 

MARY  DOUL  —  partly  behind  bush.— 
Come  in  now  beside  of  me.  (They  kneel 
down,  still  clearly  visible.)  Do  you  think 
they  can  see  us  now,  Martin  Doul? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  I'm  thinking  they 
can't,  but  I'm  hard  set  to  know;  for  the  lot 
of  them  young  girls,  the  devil  save  them, 
have  sharp,  terrible  eyes,  would  pick  out  a 
poor  man,  I'm  thinking,  and  he  lying  below 
hid  in  his  grave. 

MARY  DOUL.  Let  you  not  be  whisper- 
ing sin,  Martin  Doul,  or  maybe  it's  the  finger 
of  God  they'd  see  pointing  to  ourselves. 

MARTIN  DOUL.     It's  yourself  is  speak- 


78  THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

ing  madness,  Mary  Doul;  haven't  you  heard 
the  Saint  say  it's  the  wicked  do  be  blind? 

MARY  DOUL.  If  it  is  you'd  have  a  right 
to  speak  a,_big,  terrible  word  would  make  the 
water  not  cure  us  at  all. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  What  way  would  I 
find  a  big,  terrible  word,  and  I  shook  with  the 
fear;  and  if  I  did  itself,  who'd  know  rightly 
if  it's  good  words  or  bad  would  save  us  this 
day  from  himself? 

MARY  DOUL.  They're  coming.  I  hear 
their  feet  on  the  stones. 

[The  Saint  comes  in  on  right,  with 
Timmy  and  Molly  Byrne  in  holiday 
clothes,  the  others  as  before. 

TIMMY.  I've  heard  tell  Martin  Doul  and 
Mary  Doul  were  seen  this  day  about  on  the 
road,  holy  father,  and  we  were  thinking  you'd 
have  pity  on  them  and  cure  them  again. 

SAINT.  I  would,  maybe,  but  where  are 
they  at  all?  I  have  little  time  left  when  I  have 
the  two  of  you  wed  in  the  church. 

MAT  SIMON  —  at  their  seat.  —  There  are 
the  rushes  they  do  have  lying  round  on  the 
stones.  It's  not  far  off  they'll  be,  surely. 

MOLLY  BYRNE  —  pointing  with  aston- 
ishment. —  Look  beyond,  Timmy. 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          79 

[They  all  look  over  and  see  Martin 
Doul 

TIMMY.  Well,  Martin's  a  lazy  fellow  to 
be  lying  in  there  at  the  height  of  the  day. 
(He  goes  over  shouting.}  Let  you  get  up  out 
of  that.  You  were  near  losing  a  great  chance 
by  your  sleepiness  this  day,  Martin  Doul.  .  .  . 
The  two  of  them's  in  it,  God  help  us  all ! 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  scrambling  up  with 
Mary  Doul. —  What  is  it  you  want,  Timmy, 
that  you  can't  leave  us  in  peace  ? 

TIMMY.  The  Saint's  come  to  marry  the 
two  of  us,  and  I'm  after  speaking  a  word  for 
yourselves,  the  way  he'll  be  curing  you  now; 
for  if  you're  a  foolish  man  itself,  I  do  be  pity- 
ing you,  for  I've  a  kind  heart,  when  I  think 
of  you  sitting  dark  again,  and  you  after  see- 
ing a  while  and  working  for  your  bread. 

[Martin  Doul  takes  Mary  Doul's  hand 
and  tries  to  grope  his  -way  off  right; 
he  has  lost  his  hat,  and  they  are  both 
covered  with  dust  and  grass  seeds. 

PEOPLE.  You're  going  wrong.  It's  this 
way,  Martin  Doul. 

[They  push  him  over  in  front  of  the 
Saint,  near  centre.  Martin  Doul  and 
Mary  Doul  stand  with  piteous  hang- 
dog dejection. 


8o          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

SAINT.  Let  you  not  be  afeard,  for  there's 
great  pity  with  the  Lord. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  We  aren't  afeard, 
holy  father. 

SAINT.  It's  many  a  time  those  that  are 
cured  with  the  well  of  the  four  beauties  of  God 
lose  their  sight  when  a  time  is  gone,  but  those 
I  cure  a  second  time  go  on  seeing  till  the  hour 
of  death.  (He  takes  ie  cover  from  his  can.} 
I've  a  few  drops  only  left  of  t^e  water,  but, 
with  the  help  of  G  ',  i'-'ll  be  enough  for  the 
two  of  you,  and  let  you  kneel  down  now  upon 
the  road. 

[Martin  Doul  wheels  round  with  Mary 
Doul  and  tries  to  get  away. 

SAINT.  You  can  kneel  down  here,  I'm 
saying,  we'll  not  trouble  this  time  going  to  the 
church. 

TIMM\  —  turning  Martin  Doui  round, 
angrily. —  Are  you  going  mad  in  your  head, 
Martin  Doul?  It's  here  you're  to  kneel.  Did 
you  not  hear  his  reverence,  and  he  speaking 
to  you  now? 

SAINT.     Kneel    down,    I'm    saying,    the 
ground's  dry  at  your  feet. 
.  MARTIN    DOUL  —  with    distress.—  Let 
you  go  on  your  own  way,  holy  father.    We're 
not  calling  you  at  all. 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          81 

SAINT.  I'm  not  saying  a  word  of  pen- 
ance, or  fasting  itself,  for  I'm  thinking  the 
Lord  has  brought  you  great  teaching  in  the 
blindness  of  your  eyes;  so  you've  no  call  now 
to  be  fearing  me,  but  let  you  kneel  down  till 
I  give  you  your  sight. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  more  troubled.— 
We're  not  asking  our  sight,  holy  father,  and 
let  you  walk  on  your  own  way,  and  be  fasting, 
or  praying,  or  doing  anything  that  you  will, 
but  leave  us  here  in  our  peace,  at  the  crossing 
of  the  roads,  for  it's  best  we  are  this  way,  and 
we're  not  asking  to  see. 

SAINT  —  to  the  People. —  Is  his  mind 
gone  that  he's  no  wish  to  be  cured  this  day, 
or  to  be  living  or  working,  or  looking  on  the 
wonders  of  the  world? 

MARTIN  DOUL.  It's  wonders  enough  I 
seen  in  a  short  space  for  the  life  of  one  man 
only. 

SAINT  —  severely. —  I  never  heard  tell  of 
any  person  wouldn't  have  great  joy  to  be 
looking  on  the  earth,  and  the  image  of  the 
Lord  thrown  upon  men. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  raising  his  voice  — 
Them  is  great  sights,  holy  father.  .  .  .  What 
was  it  I  seen  when  I  first  opened  my  eyes  but 


82          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

your  own  bleeding  feet,  and  they  cut  with  the 
stones?  That  was  a  great  sight,  maybe,  of 
the  image  of  God.  .  .  .  And  what  was  it  I 
seen  my  last  day  but  the  villainy  of  hell  look- 
ing out  from  the  eyes  of  the  girl  you're  com- 
ing to  marry  —  the  Lord  forgive  you  —  with 
Timmy  the  smith.  That  was  a  great  sight, 
maybe.  And  wasn't  it  great  sights  I  seen  on 
the  roads  when  the  north  winds  would  be 
driving,  and  the  skies  would  be  harsh,  till 
you'd  see  the  horses  and  the  asses,  and  the 
dogs  itself,  maybe,  with  their  heads  hanging, 
and  they  closing  their  eyes . 

SAINT.  And  did  you  never  hear  tell  of 
the  summer,  and  the  fine  spring,  and  the 
places  where  the  holy  men  of  Ireland  have 
built  up  churches  to  the  Lord?  No  man  isn't 
a  madman,  I'm  thinking,  would  be  talking  the 
like  of  that,  and  wishing  to  be  closed  up  and 
seeing  no  sight  of  the  grand  glittering  seas, 
and  the  furze  that  is  opening  above,  and  will 
soon  have  the  hills  shining  as  if  it  was  fine 
creels  of  gold  they  were,  rising  to  the  sky. 

MARTIN  DOUL.  Is  it  talking  now  you 
are  of  Knock  and  Ballavore?  Ah,  it's  our- 
selves had  finer  sights  than  the  like  of  them, 
I'm  telling  you,  when  we  were  sitting  a  while 
back  hearing  the  birds  and  bees  humming  in 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          83 

every  weed  of  the  ditch,  or  when  we'd  be 
smelling  the  sweet,  beautiful  smell  does  xbe 
rising  in  the  warm  nights,  when  you  do  hear 
the  swift  flying  things  racing  in  the  air,  till 
we'd  be  looking  up  in  our  own  minds  into  a 
grand  sky,  and  seeing  lakes,  and  big  rivers, 
and  fine  hills  for  taking  the  plough. 

SAINT  —  to  People.—  There's  little  use 
talking  with  the  like  of  him. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  It's  lazy  he  is,  holy 
father,  and  not  wanting  to  work;  for  a  while 
before  you  had  him  cured  he  was  always  talk- 
ing, and  wishing,  and  longing  for  his  sight. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  turning  on  her. —  I 
was  longing,  surely,  for  sight;  but  I  seen  my 
fill  in  a  short  while  with  the  look  of  my  wife, 
and  the  look  of  yourself,  Molly  Byrne,  when 
you'd  the  queer  wicked  grin  in  your  eyes  you 
do  have  the  time  you're  making  game  with  a 
man. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  Let  you  not  mind  him, 
holy  father;  for  it's  bad  things  he  was  saying 
to  me  a  while  back  —  bad  things  for  a  married 
man,  your  reverence  —  and  you'd  do  right 
surely  to  leave  him  in  darkness,  if  it's  that  is 
best  fitting  the  villainy  of  his  heart. 

TIMMY  —  to  Saint. —  Would  you  cure 
Mary  Doul,  your  reverence,  who  is  a  quiet 


84          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

poor  woman,  never  did  hurt  to  any,  or  said 
a  hard  word,  saving  only  when  she'd  be  vexed 
with  himself,  or  with  young  girls  would  be 
making  game  of  her  below? 

SAINT  —  to  Mary  Doul. —  If  you  have 
any  sense,  Mary,  kneel  down  at  my  feet,  and 
I'll  bring  the  sight  again  into  your  eyes. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  more  defiantly.— 
You  will  not,  holy  father.  Would  you  have 
her  looking  on  me,  and  saying  hard  words  to 
me,  till  the  hour  of  death? 

SAINT  —  severely. —  If  she's  wanting  her 
sight  I  wouldn't  have  the  like  of  you  stop  her 
at  all.  (To  Mary  Doul.}  Kneel  down,  I'm 
saying. 

MARY  DOUL  —  doubtfully.— Let  us  be 
as  we  are,  holy  father,  and  then  we'll  be 
known  again  in  a  short  while  as  the  people  is 
happy  and  blind,  and  be  having  an  easy  time, 
with  no  trouble  to  live,  and  we  getting  half- 
pence on  the  road. 

MOLLY  BYRNE.  Let  you  not  be  a  rav- 
ing fool,  Mary  Doul.  Kneel  down  now,  and 
let  him  give  you  your  sight,  and  himself  can 
be  sitting  here  if  he  likes  it  best,  and  taking 
halfpence  on  the  road. 

TIMMY.  That's  the  truth,  Mary;  and  if 
it's  choosing  a  wilful  blindness  you  are,  I'm 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          85 

thinking  there  isn't  anyone  in  this  place  will 
ever  be  giving  you  a  hand's  turn  or  a  hap'orth 
of  meal,  or  be  doing  the  little  things  you  need 
to  keep  you  at  all  living  in  the  world. 

MAT  SIMON.  If  you  had  your  sight, 
Mary,  you  could  be  walking  up  for  him  and 
down  with  him,  and  be  stitching  his  clothes, 
and  keeping  a  watch  on  him  day  and  night 
the  way  no  other  woman  would  come  near 
him  at  all. 

MARY  DOUL  —  half  persuaded.—  That's 

the  truth,  maybe . 

SAINT.  Kneel  down  now,  I'm  saying, 
for  it's  in  haste  I  am  to  be  going  on  with  the 
marriage  and  be  walking  my  own  way  before 
the  fall  of  night. 

THE  PEOPLE.  Kneel  down,  Mary! 
Kneel  down  when  you're  bid  by  the  Saint! 

MARY  DOUL  —  looking  uneasily  towards 
Martin  Doul. —  Maybe  it's  right  they  are,  and 
I  will  if  you  wish  it,  holy  father. 

[She  kneels  down.     The  Saint  takes  off 
his  hat  and  gives  it  to  some  one  near 
him.    All  the  men  take  off  their  hats. 
He  goes  forward  a  step  to  take  Martin 
Doul's  hand  away  from  Mary  Doul. 
SAINT  —  to     Martin     Doul. —  Go     aside 
now;  we're  not  wanting  you  here. 


86          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  pushes  him  away 
roughly,  and  stands  with  his  left  hand  on 
Mary  Doul's  shoulder. —  Keep  off  yourself, 
holy  father,  and  let  you  not  be  taking  my  rest 
from  me  in  the  darkness  of  my  wife.  .  .  . 
What  call  has  the  like  of  you  to  be  coming 
between  married  people  —  that  you're  not 
understanding  at  all  —  and  be  making  a  great 
mess  with  the  holy  water  you  have,  and  the 
length  of  your  prayers?  Go  on  now,  I'm 
saying,  and  leave  us  here  on  the  road. 

SAINT.  If  it  was  a  seeing  man  I  heard 
talking  to  me  the  like  of  that  I'd  put  a  black 
curse  on  him  would  weigh  down  his  soul  till 
it'd  be  falling  to  hell;  but  you're  a  poor  blind 
sinner,  God  forgive  you,  and  I  don't  mind 
you  at  all.  (He  raises  his  can.}  Go  aside 
now  till  I  give  the  blessing  to  your  wife,  and 
if  you  won't  go  with  your  own  will,  there 
are  those  standing  by  will  make  you,  surely. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  pulling  Mary  Doul.— 
Come  along  now,  and  don't  mind  him  at  all. 

SAINT  —  imperiously,  to  the  People. — 
Let  you  take  that  man  and  drive  him  down 
upon  the  road. 

{Some  men  seize  Martin  Doul. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  struggling  and  shout- 
ing.—  Make  them  leave  me  go,  holy  father! 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS          87 

Make  them  leave  me  go,  I'm  saying,  and  you 
may  cure  her  this  day,  or  do  anything  that 
you  will. 

SAINT  —  to  People.—  Let  him  be 

Let  him  be  if  his  sense  is  come  to  him  at  all. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  shakes  himself  loose, 
feels  for  Mary  Doul,  sinking  his  voice  to  a 
plausible  whine. —  You  may  cure  herself, 
surely,  holy  father;  I  wouldn't  stop  you  at  all 
—  and  it's  great  joy  she'll  have  looking  on 
your  face  —  but  let  you  cure  myself  along 
with  her,  the  way  I'll  see  when  it's  lies  she's 
telling,  and  be  looking  out  day  and  night  upon 
the  holy  men  of  God. 

[He  kneels  down  a  little  before  Mary 
Doul. 

SAINT  —  speaking  half  to  the  People. — 
Men  who  are  dark  a  long  while  and  thinking 
over  queer  thoughts  in  their  heads,  aren't  the 
like  of  simple  men,  who  do  be  working  every 
day,  and  praying,  and  living  like  ourselves; 
so  if  he  has  found  a  right  mind  at  the  last 
minute  itself,  I'll  cure  him,  if  the  Lord  will, 
and  not  be  thinking  of  the  hard,  foolish 
words  he's  after  saying  this  day  to  us  all. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  listening  eagerly. — 
I'm  waiting  now,  holy  father. 

SAINT  —  with  can  in  his  hand,  close  to 


88          THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

Martin  Doul. —  With  the  power  of  the  water 
from  the  grave  of  the  four  beauties  of  God, 
with  the  power  ol  this  water,  I'm  saying,  that 

I  put  upon  your  eyes . 

[He  raises  can. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  with  a  sudden  move- 
ment strikes  the  can  from  the  Saint's  hand 
and  sends  it  rocketing  across  stage.  He  stands 
up;  People  murmur  loudly. —  If  I'm  a  poor 
dark  sinner  I've  sharp  ears,  God  help  me,  and 
have  left  you  with  a  big  head  on  you  and 
it's  well  I  heard  the  little  splash  of  the  water 
you  had  there  in  the  can.  Go  on  now,  holy 
father,  for  if  you're  a  fine  Saint  itself,  it's 
more  sense  is  in  a  blind  man,  and  more  power 
maybe  than  you're  thinking  at  all.  Let  you 
walk  on  now  with  your  worn  feet,  and  your 
welted  knees,  and  your  fasting,  holy  ways 
a  thin  pitiful  arm.  (The  Saint  looks  at 
him  for  a  moment  severely,  then  turns  away 
and  picks  up  his  can.  He  pulls  Mary  Doul 
up.)  For  if  it's  a  right  some  of  you  have  to 
be  working  and  sweating  the  like  of  Timmy 
the  smith,  and  a  right  some  of  you  have  to 
be  fasting  and  praying  and  talking  holy  talk 
the  like  of  yourself,  I'm  thinking  it's  a  good 
right  ourselves  have  to  be  sitting  blind,  hear- 
ing a  soft  wind  turning  round  Hie  little  leaves 
of  the  spring  and  feeling  the  sun,  and  we  not 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS  89 

tormenting  our  souls  with  the  sight  of  the 
gray  days,  and  the  holy  men,  and  the  dirty 
feet  is  trampling  the  world. 

[He  gropes  towards  his  stone  with  Mary 
Doul. 

MAT  SIMON.  It'd  be  an  unlucky  fearful 
thing,  I'm  thinking,  to  have  the  like  of  that 
man  living  near  us  at  all  in  the  townland  of 
Grianan.  Wouldn't  he  bring  down  a  curse 
upon  us,  holy  father,  from  the  heavens  of 
God? 

SAINT  —  tying  his  girdle.  —  God  has 
great  mercy,  but  great  wrath  for  them  that 
sin. 

THE  PEOPLE.  Go  on  now,  Martin 
Doul.  Go  on  from  this  place.  Let  you  not 
be  bringing  great  storms  or  droughts  on  us 
maybe  from  the  power  of  the  Lord. 

[Some  of  them  throw  things  at  him. 

MARTIN  DOUL  —  turning  round  de- 
fiantly and  picking  up  a  stone.  —  Keep  off 
now,  the  yelping  lot  of  you,  or  it's  more  than 
one  maybe  will  get  a  bloody  head  on  him  with 
the  pitch  of  my  stone.  Keep  off  now,  and  let 
you  not  be  afeard;  for  we're  going  on  the 
two  of  us  to  the  towns  of  the  south,  where 
the  people  will  have  kind  voices  maybe,  and 
we  won't  know  their  bad  looks  or  their 
villainy  at  all.  (He  takes  Mary  Doul's  hand 


90  THE  WELL  OF  THE  SAINTS 

again.)  Come  along  now  and  we'll  be  walk- 
ing to  the  south,  for  we've  seen  too  much  of 
everyone  in  this  place,  and  it's  small  joy  we'd 
have  living  near  them,  or  hearing  the  lies 
they  do  be  telling  from  the  gray  of  dawn  till 
the  night. 

MARY  DOUL  —  despondingly.—  That's 
the  truth,  surely;  and  we'd  have  a  right  to  be 
gone,  if  it's  a  long  way  itself,  as  I've  heard 
them  say,  where  you  do  have  to  be  walking 
with  a  slough  of  wet  on  the  one  side  and  a 
slough  of  wet  on  the  other,  and  you  going 
a  stony  path  with  a  north  wind  blowing  be- 
hind. [They  go  out. 

TIMMY.  There's  a  power  of  deep  rivers 
with  floods  in  them  where  you  do  have  to 
be  lepping  the  stones  and  you  going  to  the 
south,  so  I'm  thinking  the  two  of  them  will 
be  drowned  together  in  a  short  while,  surely. 

SAINT.  They  have  chosen  their  lot,  and 
the  Lord  have  mercy  on  their  souls.  (He 
rings  his  bell.}  And  let  the  two  of  you  come 
up  now  into  the  church,  Molly  Byrne  and 
Timmy  the  smith,  till  I  make  your  marriage 
and  put  my  blessing  on  you  all. 

[He  turns  to  the  church;  procession 
•forms,  and  the  curtain  comes  down, 
as  they  go  slowly  into  the  church. 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 


PREFACE. 

THE  drama  is  made  serious  —  in  the  French 
sense  of  the  word  —  not  by  the  degree  in 
which  it  is  taken  up  with  problems  that  are 
serious  in  themselves,  but  by  the  degree  in 
which  it  gives  Lhe  nourishment,  not  very  easy 
to  define,  on  which  our  imaginations  live.  We 
should  not  go  to  the  theatre  as  we  go  to  a 
chemist's,  or  a  dram-shop,  but  as  we  go  to 
a  dinner,  where  the  food  we  need  is  taken 
with  pleasure  and  excitement.  This  was 
nearly  always  so  in  Spain  and  England  and 
France  when  the  drama  was  at  its  richest  — 
the  infancy  and  decay  of  the  drama  tend  to 
be  didactic  —  but  in  these  days  the  playhouse 
is  too  often  stocked  with  the  drugs  of  many 


VI  PREFACE 

seedy  problems,  or  with  the  absinthe  or  ver- 
mouth of  the  last  musical  comedy. 

The  drama,  like  the  symphony,  does  not 
teach  or  prove  anything.  Analysts  with  their 
problems,  and  teachers  with  their  systems,  are 
soon  as  old-fashioned  as  the  pharmacopoeia  of 
Galen, — look  at  Ibsen  and  the  Germans  —  but 
the  best  plays  of  Ben  Jonson  and  Moliere  can 
no  more  go  out  of  fashion  than  the  black- 
berries on  the  hedges. 

Of  the  things  which  nourish  the  imagination 
humour  is  one  of  the  most  needful,  and  it  is 
dangerous  to  limit  or  destroy  it.  Baudelaire 
calls  laughter  the  greatest  sign  of  the  Satanic 
element  in  man;  and  where  a  country  loses 
its  humor,  as  some  towns  in  Ireland  are  doing, 
there  will  be  morbidity  of  mind,  as  Baude- 
laire's mind  was  morbid. 

In  the  greater  part  of  Ireland,  however, 
the  whole  people,  from  the  tinkers  to  the 
clergy,  have  still  a  life,  and  view  of  life,  that 


PREFACE  VH 

are  rich  and  genial  and  humorous.  I  do  not 
think  that  these  country  people,  who  have  so 
much  humor  themselves,  will  mind  being 
laughed  at  without  malice,  as  the  people  in 
every  country  have  been  laughed  at  in  their 
own  comedies. 

J.  M.  S. 

December  2nd,  1907. 


PERSONS 

MICHAEL  BYRNE,  a  tinker. 
MARY  BYRNE,  an  old  woman,  his  mother. 
SARAH  CASEY,  a  young  tinker  woman. 
A  PRIEST. 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 


ACT  I. 

SCENE:  A  Village  roadside  after  nightfall. 
A  fire  of  sticks  is  burning  near  the  ditch  a 
little  to  the  right.  Michael  is  working  beside 
it.  In  the  background,  on  the  left,  a  sort  of 
tent  and  ragged  clothes  drying  on  the  hedge. 
On  the  right  a  chapel-gate. 

SARAH  CASEY  —  coming  in  on  right, 
eagerly. —  We'll  see  his  reverence  this  place, 
Michael  Byrne,  and  he  passing  backward  to 
his  house  to-night. 

MICHAEL  —  grimly.—  That'll  be  a  sacred 
and  a  sainted  joy! 

SARAH  —  sharply.—  It'll  be  small  joy  for 
yourself  if  you  aren't  ready  with  my  wedding 
ring.  (She  goes  over  to  him.)  Is  it  near 
done  this  time,  or  what  way  is  it  at  all? 

MICHAEL.  A  poor  way  only,  Sarah 
Casey,  for  it's  the  divil's  job  making  a  ring, 
and  you'll  be  having  my  hands  destroyed  in 
a  short  while  the  way  I'll  not  be  able  to  make 
a  tin  can  at  all  maybe  at  the  dawn  of  day. 

SARAH  —  sitting  down  beside  him  and 
throwing  sticks  on  the  fire. —  If  it's  the  divil's 


14  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

job,  let  you  mind  it,  and  leave  your  speeches 
that  would  choke  a  fool. 

MICHAEL  —  slowly  and  glumly. —  And 
it's  you'll  go  talking  of  fools,  Sarah  Casey, 
when  no  man  did  ever  hear  a  lying  story  even 
of  your  like  unto  this  mortal  day.  You  to 
be  going  beside  me  a  great  while,  and  rearing 
a  lot  of  them,  and  then  to  be  setting  off  with 
your  talk  of  getting  married,  and  your  driv- 
ing me  to  it,  and  I  not  asking  it  at  all. 

[Sarah  turns  her  back  to  him  and  ar- 
ranges something  in  the  ditch. 

MICHAEL  —  angrily. —  Can't  you  speak 
a  word  when  I'm  asking  what  is  it  ails  you 
since  the  moon  did  change? 

SARAH  —  musingly. —  I'm  thinking  there 
isn't  anything  ails  me,  Michael  Byrne;  but 
the  spring-time  is  a  queer  time,  and  its  queer 
thoughts  maybe  I  do  think  at  whiles. 

MICHAEL.  It's  hard  set  you'd  be  to  think 
queerer  than  welcome,  Sarah  Casey;  but  what 
will  you  gain  dragging  me  to  the  priest  this 
night,  I'm  saying,  when  it's  new  thoughts 
you'll  be  thinking  at  the  dawn  of  day? 

TARAH  —  teasingly. —  It's  at  the  dawn  of 
day  I  do  be  thinking  I'd  have  a  right  to  be 
going  off  to  the  rich  tinker's  do  be  travelling 
from  Tibradden  to  the  Tara  Hill ;  for  it'd  be 
a  fine  life  to  be  driving  with  young  Jaunting 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  15 

Jim,  where  there  wouldn't  be  any  big  hills 
to  break  the  back  of  you,  with  walking  up  and 
walking  down. 

MICHAEL  —  with  dismay. —  It's  the  like 
of  that  you  do  be  thinking! 

SARAH.  The  like  of  that,  Michael  Byrne, 
when  there  is  a  bit  of  sun  in  it,  and  a  kind 
air,  and  a  great  smell  coming  from  the  thorn 
trees  is  above  your  head. 

MICHAEL  —  looks  at  her  for  a  moment 
with  horror,  and  then  hands  her  the  ring. — 
Will  that  fit  you  now? 

SARAH  —  trying  it  on. —  It's  making  it 
tight  you  are,  and  the  edges  sharp  on  the  tin. 

MICHAEL  —  looking  at  it  carefully. — 
It's  the  fat  of  your  own  finger,  Sarah  Casey; 
and  isn't  it  a  mad  thing  I'm  saying  again 
that  you'd  be  asking  marriage  of  me,  or  mak- 
ing a  talk  of  going  away  from  me,  and  you 
thriving  and  getting  your  good  health  by  the 
grace  of  the  Almighty  God? 

SARAH  —  giving  it  back  to  him. —  Fix  it 
now,  and  it'll  do,  if  you're  wary  you  don't 
squeeze  it  again. 

MICHAEL  —  moodily,  working  again. — 
It's  easy  saying  be  wary;  there's  many  things 
easy  said,  Sarah  Casey,  you'd  wonder  a  fool 
even  would  be  saying  at  all.  (He  starts  vio- 


16  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

lently.}  The  divil  mend  you,  I'm  scalded 
again ! 

SARAH  —  scornfully. —  If  you  are,  it's  a 
clumsy  man  you  are  this  night,  Michael  Byrne 
(raising  her  voice}  ;  and  let  you  make  haste 
now,  or  herself  will  be  coming  with  the  porter. 

MICHAEL  —  defiantly,  raising  his  voice. 
Let  me  make  haste?  I'll  be  making  haste 
maybe  to  hit  you  a  great  clout;  for  I'm  think- 
ing it's  the  like  of  that  you  want.  I'm  think- 
ing on  the  day  I  got  you  above  at  Rathvanna, 
and  the  way  you  began  crying  out  and  we 
coming  down  off  the  hill,  crying  out  and  say- 
ing, "I'll  go  back  to  my  ma,"  and  I'm  thinking 
on  the  way  I  came  behind  you  that  time,  and 
hit  you  a  great  clout  in  the  lug,  and  how  quiet 
and  easy  it  was  you  came  along  with  me  from 
that  hour  to  this  present  day. 

SARAH  —  standing  up  and  throwing  all 
her  sticks  into  the  fire. —  And  a  big  fool  I  was 
too,  maybe;  but  we'll  be  seeing  Jaunting  Jim 
to-morrow  in  Ballinaclash,  and  he  after  get- 
ting a  great  price  for  his  white  foal  in  the 
horse-fair  of  Wicklow,  the  way  it'll  be  a  great 
sight  to  see  him  squandering  his  share  of  gold, 
and  he  with  a  grand  eye  for  a  fine  horse,  and 
a  grand  eye  for  a  woman. 

MICHAEL  —  working   again  with   impa- 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  17 

tience. —  The  divil  do  him  good  with  the  two 
of  them. 

SARAH  —  kicking  up  the  ashes  with  her 
foot. —  Ah,  he's  a  great  lad,  I'm  telling  you, 
and  it's  proud  and  happy  I'll  be  to  see  him, 
and  he  the  first  one  called  me  the  Beauty  of 
Ballinacree,  a  fine  name  for  a  woman. 

MICHAEL  —  with  contempt.—  It's  the 
like  of  that  name  they  do  be  putting  on  the 
horses  they  have  below  racing  in  Arklow.  It's 
easy  pleased  you  are,  Sarah  Casey,  easy 
pleased  with  a  big  word,  or  the  liar  speaks  it. 

SARAH.     Liar! 

MICHAEL.     Liar,  surely. 

SARAH  —  indignantly. —  Liar,  is  it? 
Didn't  you  ever  hear  tell  of  the  peelers  fol- 
lowed me  ten  miles  along  the  Glen  Malure, 
and  they  talking  love  to  me  in  the  dark  night, 
or  of  the  children  you'll  meet  coming  from 
school  and  they  saying  one  to  the  other,  "  It's 
this  day  we  seen  Sarah  Casey,  the  Beauty  of 
Ballinacree,  a  great  sight  surely." 

MICHAEL.     God  help  the  lot  of  them! 

SARAH.  It's  yourself  you'll  be  calling 
God  to  help,  in  two  weeks  or  three,  when 
you'll  be  waking  up  in  the  dark  night  and 
thinking  you  see  me  coming  with  the  sun  on 
me,  and  I  driving  a  high  cart  with  Jaunting 


i8  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

Jim  going  behind.  It's  lonesome  and  cold 
you'll  be  feeling  the  ditch  where  you'll  be 
lying  down  that  night,  I'm  telling  you,  and 
you  hearing  the  old  woman  making  a  great 
noise  in  her  sleep,  and  the  bats  squeaking  in 
the  trees. 

MICHAEL.  Whist.  I  hear  some  one 
coming  the  road. 

SARAH  —  looking  out  right. —  It's  some 
one  coming  forward  from  the  doctor's  door. 

MICHAEL.  It's  often  his  reverence  does 
be  in  there  playing  cards,  or  drinking  a  sup,  or 
singing  songs,  until  the  dawn  of  day. 

SARAH.  It's  a  big  boast  of  a  man  with  a 
long  step  on  him  and  a  trumpeting  voice. 
It's  his  reverence  surely;  and  if  you  have  the 
ring  done,  it's  a  great  bargain  we'll  make  now 
and  he  after  drinking  his  glass. 

MICHAEL  —  going  to  her  and  giving  her 
the  ring. —  There's  your  ring,  Sarah  Casey ; 
but  I'm  thinking  he'll  walk  by  and  not  stop  to 
speak  with  the  like  of  us  at  all. 

SARAH  —  tidying  herself,  in  great  excite- 
ment.—  Let  you  be  sitting  here  and  keeping 
a  great  blaze,  the  way  he  can  look  on  my  face ; 
and  let  you  seem  to  be  working,  for  it's  great 
love  the  like  of  him  have  to  talk  of  work. 

MICHAEL  —  moodily,   sitting  down  and 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  19 

beginning  to  work  at  a  tin  can. —  Great  love 
surely. 

SARAH  —  eagerly. — Make  a  great  blaze 
now,  Michael  Byrne. 

[The  priest  comes  in  on  right;  she  comes 
forward  in  front  of  him. 

SARAH  —  in  a  very  plausible  voice. — 
Good  evening,  your  reverence.  It's  a  grand 
fine  night,  by  the  grace  of  God. 

PRIEST.  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us! 
What  kind  of  a  living  woman  is  it  that  you 
are  at  all? 

SARAH.  It's  Sarah  Casey  I  am ,  your 
reverence,  the  Beauty  of  Ballinacree,  and  it's 
Michael  Byrne  is  below  in  the  ditch. 

PRIEST.  A  holy  pair,  surely!  Let  you 
get  out  of  my  way.  [He  tries  to  pass  by. 

SARAH  —  keeping  in  front  of  him. —  We 
are  wanting  a  little  word  with  your  reverence. 

PRIEST.  I  haven't  a  halfpenny  at  all. 
Leave  the  road  I'm  saying. 

SARAH.  It  isn't  a  halfpenny  we're  ask- 
ing, holy  father;  but  we  were  thinking  maybe 
we'd  have  a  right  to  be  getting  married;  and 
we  were  thinking  it's  yourself  would  marry 
us  for  not  a  halfpenny  at  all;  for  you're  a 
kind  man,  your  reverence,  a  kind  man  with 
the  poor. 


2O  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

PRIEST  —  with  astonishment. —  Is  it  mar- 
ry you  for  nothing  at  all? 

SARAH.  It  is,  your  reverence;  and  we 
were  thinking  maybe  you'd  give  us  a  little 
small  bit  of  silver  to  pay  for  the  ring. 

PRIEST  —  loudly.—  Let  you  hold  your 
tongue;  let  you  be  quiet,  Sarah  Casey.  I've 
no  silver  at  all  for  the  like  of  you ;  and  if  you 
want  to  be  married,  let  you  pay  your  pound. 
I'd  do  it  for  a  pound  only,  and  that's  making 
it  a  sight  cheaper  than  I'd  make  it  for  one 
of  my  own  pairs  is  living  here  in  the  place. 

SARAH.  Where  would  the  like  of  us  get 
a  pound,  your  reverence? 

PRIEST.  Wouldn't  you  easy  get  it  with 
your  selling  asses,  and  making  cans,  and  your 
stealing  east  and  west  in  Wicklow  and  Wex- 
ford  and  the  county  Meath?  (He  tries  to 
pass  her.")  Let  you  leave  the  road,  and  not 
be  plaguing  me  more. 

SARAH  —  pleadingly,  taking  money  from 
her  pocket. —  Wouldn't  you  have  a  little  mercy 
on  us,  your  reverence?  (Holding  out  money.) 
Wouldn't  you  marry  us  for  a  half  a  sovereign, 
and  it  a  nice  shiny  one  with  a  view  on  it  of 
the  living  king's  mamma? 

PRIEST.  If  it's  ten  shillings  you  have, 
let  you  get  ten  more  the  same  way,  and  I'll 
marry  you  then. 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  21 

SARAH  —  whining. —  It's  two  years  we 
are  getting  that  bit,  your  reverence,  with  our 
pence  and  our  halfpence  and  an  odd  three- 
penny bit;  and  if  you  don't  marry  us  now, 
himself  and  the  old  woman,  who  has  a  great 
drouth,  will  be  drinking  it  to-morrow  in  the 
fair  (she  puts  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  half  sob- 
bing}, and  then  I  won't  be  married  any  time, 
and  I'll  be  saying  till  I'm  an  old  woman: 
"  It's  a  cruel  and  a  wicked  thing  to  be  bred 
poor." 

PRIEST  —  turning  up  towards  the  fire. — 
Let  you  not  be  crying,  Sarah  Casey.  It's  a 
queer  woman  you  are  to  be  crying  at  the  like 
of  that,  and  you  your  whole  life  walking  the 
roads. 

SARAH  —  sobbing. —  It's  two  years  we 
are  getting  the  gold,  your  reverence,  and  now 
you  won't  marry  us  for  that  bit,  and  we 
hard-working  poor  people  do  be  making  cans 
in  the  dark  night,  and  blinding  our  eyes  with 
the  black  smoke  from  the  bits  of  twigs  we 
do  be  burning. 

[An  old  woman  is  heard  singing  tipsily 
on  the  left. 

PRIEST  —  looking  at  the  can  Michael  is 
making. —  When  will  you  have  that  can  done, 
Micha.el  Byrne? 

MICHAEL.     In  a  short  space  only,  your 


22  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

reverence,  for  I'm  putting  the  last  dab  of 
solder  on  the  rim. 

PRIEST.  Let  you  get  a  crown  along  with 
the  ten  shillings  and  the  gallon  can,  Sarah 
Casey,  and  I  will  wed  you  so. 

MARY  —  suddenly  shouting  behind,  tip- 
sily. —  Larry  was  a  fine  lad,  I'm  saying;  Larry 
was  a  fine  lad,  Sarah  Casey  — 

MICHAEL.  Whist,  now,  the  two  of  you. 
There's  my  mother  coming,  and  she'd  have  us 
destroyed  if  she  heard  the  like  of  that  talk 
the  time  she's  been  drinking  her  fill. 

MARY  —  comes  in  singing  — 

And  when  we  asked  him  what  way  he'd  die, 
And  he  hanging  unrepented, 

"  Begob,"  says  Larry,  "  that's  all  in  my  eye, 
By  the  clergy  first  invented." 

SARAH.  Give  me  the  jug  now,  or  you'll 
have  it  spilt  in  the  ditch. 

MARY  —  holding  the  jug  with  both  her 
hands,  in  a  stilted  voice. —  Let  you  leave  me 
easy,  Sarah  Casey.  I  won't  spill  it,  I'm  saying. 
God  help  you;  are  you  thinking  it's  frothing 
full  to  the  brim  it  is  at  this  hour  of  the  night, 
and  I  after  carrying  it  in  my  two  hands  a  long 
step  from  Jemmy  Neill's? 

MICHAEL  —  anxiously. —  Is  there  a  sup 
left  at  all? 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  23 

SARAH  —  looking  into  the  fug. —  A  little 
small  sup  only  I'm  thinking. 

MARY  —  sees  the  priest,  and  holds  out  jug 
towards  him. —  God  save  your  reverence.  I'm 
after  bringing  down  a  smart  drop;  and  let 
you  drink  it  up  now,  for  it's  a  middling 
drouthy  man  you  are  at  all  times,  God  forgive 
you,  and  this  night  is  cruel  dry. 

[She   tries  to  go   towards  him.     Sarah 
holds  her  back. 

PRIEST  —  waving  her  away. —  Let  you 
not  be  falling  to  the  flames.  Keep  off,  I'm 
saying. 

MARY  —  persuasively. —  Let  you  not  be 
shy  of  us,  your  reverence.  Aren't  we  all 
sinners,  God  help  us!  Drink  a  sup  now,  I'm 
telling  you ;  and  we  won't  let  on  a  word  about 
it  till  the  Judgment  Day. 

[She  takes  up  a  tin  mug,  pours  some 
porter  into  it,  and  gives  it  to  him. 

MARY  —  singing,  and  holding  the  jug  in 
her  hand  — 

A  lonesome  ditch  in  Ballygan 

The  day  you're  beating  a  tenpenny  can; 

A  lonesome  bank  in  Ballyduff 

The  time  ...  [She  breaks  off. 

It's  a  bad,  wicked  song,  Sarah  Casey;  and 
let  you  put  me  down  now  in  the  ditch,  and  I 
won't  sing  it  till  himself  will  be  gone;  for 


24  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

it's  bad  enough  he  is,  I'm  thinking,  without 
ourselves  making  him  worse. 

SARAH  —  putting  her  down,  to  the  priest, 
half  laughing. —  Don't  mind  her  at  all,  your 
reverence.  She's  no  shame  the  time  she's  a 
drop  taken;  and  if  it  was  the  Holy  Father 
from  Rome  was  in  it,  she'd  give  him  a  little 
sup  out  of  her  mug,  and  say  the  same  as  she'd 
say  to  yourself. 

MARY  —  to  the  priest. —  Let  you  drink  it 
up,  holy  father.  Let  you  drink  it  up,  I'm  say- 
ing, and  not  be  letting  on  you  wouldn't  do 
the  like  of  it,  and  you  with  a  stack  of  pint 
bottles  above,  reaching  the  sky. 

PRIEST  —  with  resignation. —  Well,  here's 
to  your  good  health,  and  God  forgive  us  all. 
[He  drinks. 

MARY.  That's  right  now,  your  reverence, 
and  the  blessing  of  God  be  on  you.  Isn't  it 
a  grand  thing  to  see  you  sitting  down,  with 
no  pride  in  you,  and  drinking  a  sup  with  the 
like  of  us,  and  we  the  poorest,  wretched, 
starving  creatures  you'd  see  any  place  on  the 
earth  ? 

PRIEST.  If  it's  starving  you  are  itself, 
I'm  thinking  it's  well  for  the  like  of  you  that 
do  be  drinking  when  there's  drouth  on  you, 
and  lying  down  to  sleep  when  your  legs  are 
stiff.  (He  sighs  gloomily.}  What  would 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  25 

you  do  if  it  was  the  like  of  myself  you  were, 
saying  Mass  with  your  mouth  dry,  and  run- 
ning east  and  west  for  a  sick  call  maybe,  and 
hearing  the  rural  people  again  and  they  saying 
their  sins? 

MARY  —  with  compassion. —  It's  destroy- 
ed you  must  be  hearing  the  sins  of  the  rural 
people  on  a  fine  spring. 

PRIEST  —  with  despondency. —  It's  a  hard 
life,  I'm  telling  you,  a  hard  life,  Mary  Byrne; 
and  there's  the  bishop  coming  in  the  morning, 
and  he  an  old  man,  would  have  you  destroyed 
if  he  seen  a  thing  at  all. 

MARY  —  with  great  sympathy.  —  It'd 
break  my  heart  to  hear  you  talking  and  sigh- 
ing the  like  of  that,  your  reverence.  (She 
pats  him  on  the  knee.}  Let  you  rouse  up, 
now,  if  it's  a  poor,  single  man  you  are  itself, 
and  I'll  be  singing  you  songs  unto  the  dawn 
of  day. 

PRIEST  —  interrupting  her.— What  is  it 
I  want  with  your  songs  when  it'd  be  better 
for  the  like  of  you,  that'll  soon  die,  to  be  down 
on  your  two  knees  saying  prayers  to  the 
Almighty  God? 

MARY.  If  it's  prayers  I  want,  you'd  have 
a  right  to  say  one  yourself,  holy  father;  for 
we  don't  have  them  at  all,  and  I've  heard  tell 
a  power  of  times  it's  that  you're  for.  Say 


26  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

one  now,  your  reverence,  for  I've  heard  a 
power  of  queer  things  and  I  walking  the 
world,  but  there's  one  thing  I  never  heard  any 
time,  and  that's  a  real  priest  saying  a  prayer. 

PRIEST.     The  Lord  protect  us! 

MARY.  It's  no  lie,  holy  father.  I  often 
heard  the  rural  people  making  a  queer  noise 
and  they  going  to  rest;  but  who'd  mind  the 
like  of  them?  And  I'm  thinking  it  should  be 
great  game  to  hear  a  scholar,  the  like  of  you, 
speaking  Latin  to  the  saints  above. 

PRIEST  —  scandalized. —  Stop  your  talk- 
ing, Mary  Byrne;  you're  an  old  flagrant 
heathen,  and  I'll  stay  no  more  with  the  lot  of 
you.  [He  rises. 

MARY  —  catching  hold  of  him. —  Stop  till 
you  say  a  prayer,  your  reverence ;  stop  till  you 
say  a  little  prayer,  I'm  telling  you,  and  I'll 
give  you  my  blessing  and  the  last  sup  from  the 

jug- 

PRIEST  —  breaking  away. —  Leave  me  go, 
Mary  Byrne;  for  I  have  never  met  your  like 
for  hard  abominations  the  score  and  two  years 
I'm  living  in  the  place. 

MARY  —  innocently. — Is  that  the  truth? 

PRIEST. —  It  is,  then,  and  God  have  mercy 
on  your  soul. 

[The  priest  goes  towards  the  lejt,  and 
Sarah  follows  him. 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  27 

SARAH  —  in  a  low  voice. —  And  what 
time  will  you  do  the  thing  I'm  asking,  holy 
father?  for  I'm  thinking  you'll  do  it  surely, 
and  not  have  me  growing  into  an  old,  wicked 
heathen  like  herself. 

MARY  —  calling  out  shrilly. —  Let  you  be 
walking  back  here,  Sarah  Casey,  and  not  be 
talking  whisper-talk  with  the  like  of  him  in  the 
face  of  the  Almighty  God. 

SARAH  —  to  the  priest. —  Do  you  hear  her 
now,  your  reverence?  Isn't  it  true,  surely, 
she's  an  old,  flagrant  heathen,  would  destroy 
the  world? 

PRIEST  — #o  Sarah,  moving  of.— Well, 
I'll  be  coming  down  early  to  the  chapel,  and  let 
you  come  to  me  a  while  after  you  see  me  pas- 
sing, and  bring  the  bit  of  gold  along  with  you, 
and  the  tin  can.  I'll  marry  you  for  them  two, 
though  it's  a  pitiful  small  sum;  for  I  wouldn't 
be  easy  in  my  soul  if  I  left  you  growing  into 
an  old,  wicked  heathen  the  like  of  her. 

SARAH  —  following  him  out. —  The  bles- 
sing of  the  Almighty  God  be  on  you,  holy 
father,  and  that  He  may  reward  and  watch 
you  from  this  present  day. 

MARY  —  nudging  Michael. —  Did  you  see 
that,  Michael  Byrne?  Didn't  you  hear  me 
telling  you  she's  flighty  a  while  back  since  the 
change  of  the  moon?  With  her  fussing  for 


28  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

marriage,  and  she  making  whisper-talk  with 
one  man  or  another  man  along  by  the  road. 

MICHAEL.— Whist  now,  or  she'll  knock 
the  head  of  you  the  time  she  comes  back. 

MARY. —  Ah,  it's  a  bad,  wicked  way  the 
world  is  this  night,  if  there's  a  fine  air  in  it 
itself.  You'd  never  have  seen  me,  and  I  a 
young  woman,  making  whisper-talk  with  the 
like  of  him,  and  he  the  fearfullest  old  fellow 
you'd  see  any  place  walking  the  world. 

[Sarah  comes  back  quickly. 

MARY  —  calling  out  to  her. —  What  is  it 
you're  after  whispering  above  with  himself? 

SARAH  —  exultingly. —  Lie  down,  and 
leave  us  in  peace.  She  whispers  with  Michael. 

MARY  —  poking  out  her  pipe  with  a  straw, 
sings  — 

She'd  whisper  with  one,  and  she'd  whisper 

with  two 

She  breaks  off  coughing. —  My  singing  voice 
is  gone  for  this  night,  Sarah  Casey.  (She 
lights  her  pipe.)  But  if  it's  flighty  you  are 
itself,  you're  a  grand  handsome  woman,  the 
glory  of  tinkers,  the  pride  of  Wicklow,  the 
Beauty  of  Ballinacree.  I  wouldn't  have  you 
lying  down  and  you  lonesome  to  sleep  this 
night  in  a  dark  ditch  when  the  spring  is  coming 
in  the  trees;  so  let  you  sit  down  there  by  the 
big  bough,  and  I'll  be  telling  you  the  finest 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  29 

story  you'd  hear  any  place  from  Dundalk  to 
Ballinacree,  with  great  queens  in  it,  making 
themselves  matches  from  the  start  to  the  end, 
and  they  with  shiny  silks  on  them  the  length 
of  the  day,  and  white  shifts  for  the  night. 

MICHAEL  —  standing  up  with  the  tin  can 
in  his  hand. —  Let  you  go  asleep,  and  not  have 
us  destroyed. 

MARY  —  lying  back  sleepily. —  Don't  mind 
him,  Sarah  Casey.  Sit  down  now,  and  I'll  be 
telling  you  a  story  would  be  fit  to  tell  a  woman 
the  like  of  you  in  the  springtime  of  the  year. 

SARAH  —  taking  the  can  from  Michael, 
and  tying  it  up  in  a  piece  of  sacking. —  That'll 
not  be  rusting  now  in  the  dews  of  night.  I'll 
put  it  up  in  the  ditch  the  way  it  will  be  handy 
in  the  morning;  and  now  we've  that  done, 
Michael  Byrne,  I'll  go  along  with  you  and 
welcome  for  Tim  Flaherty's  hens. 

[She  puts  the  can  in  the  ditch. 

MARY  —  sleepily. —  I've  a  grand  story  of 
the  great  queens  of  Ireland  with  white  necks 
on  them  the  like  of  Sarah  Casey,  and  fine 
arms  would  hit  you  a  slap  the  way  Sarah 
Casey  would  hit  you. 

SARAH  —  beckoning  on  the  left. —  Come 
along  now,  Michael,  vhile  she's  falling  asleep. 


30  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

[He  goes  towards  left.  Mary  sees  that 
they  are  going,  starts  up  suddenly,  and 
turns  over  on  her  hands  and  knees. 

MARY  —  piteously. —  Where  is  it  you're 
going?  Let  you  walk  back  here,  and  not  be 
leaving  me  lonesome  when  the  night  is  fine. 

SARAH.  Don't  be  waking  the  world  with 
your  talk  when  we're  going  up  through  the 
back  wood  to  get  two  of  Tim  Flaherty's  hens 
are  roosting  in  the  ash-tree  above  at  the  well. 

MARY.  And  it's  leaving  me  lone  you  are  ? 
Come  back  here,  Sarah  Casey.  Come  back 
here,  I'm  saying;  or  if  it's  off  you  must  go, 
leave  me  the  two  little  coppers  you  have,  the 
way  I  can  walk  up  in  a  short  while,  and  get 
another  pint  for  my  sleep. 

SARAH.  It's  too  much  you  have  taken. 
Let  you  stretch  yourself  out  and  take  a  long 
sleep;  for  isn't  that  the  best  thing  any  woman 
can  do,  and  she  an  old  drinking  heathen  like 
yourself. 

[She  and  Michael  go  out  left. 

MARY  —  standing  up  sloivly. —  It's  gone 
they  are,  and  I  with  my  feet  that  weak  under 
me  you'd  knock  me  down  with  a  rush,  and 
my  head  with  a  noise  in  it  the  like  of  what 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  31 

you'd  hear  in  a  stream  and  it  running  between 
two  rocks  and  rain  falling.  (She  goes  over  to 
the  ditch  where  the  can  is  tied  in  sacking,  and 
takes  it  down.)  What  good  am  I  this  night, 
God  help  me?  What  good  are  the  grand 
stories  I  have  when  it's  few  would  listen  to 
an  old  woman,  few  but  a  girl  maybe  would 
be  in  great  fear  the  time  her  hour  was  come, 
or  a  little  child  wouldn't  be  sleeping  with  the 
hunger  on  a  cold  night?  (She  takes  the  can 
from  the  sacking  and  fits  in  three  empty  bottles 
and  straw  in  its  place,  and  ties  them  up.} 
Maybe  the  two  of  them  have  a  good  right  to 
be  walking  out  the  little  short  while  they'd  be 
young;  but  if  they  have  itself,  they'll  not 
keep  Mary  Byrne  from  her  full  pint  when 
the  night's  fine,  and  there's  a  dry  moon  in  the 
sky.  (She  takes  up  the  can,  and  puts  the 
package  back  in  the  ditch.}  Jemmy  Neill's  a 
decent  lad;  and  he'll  give  me  a  good  drop  for 
the  can;  and  maybe  if  I  keep  near  the  peelers 
to-morrow  for  the  first  bit  of  the  fair,  herself 
won't  strike  me  at  all;  and  if  she  does  itself, 
what's  a  little  stroke  on  your  head  beside 
sitting  lonesome  on  a  fine  night,  hearing  the 


32  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

dogs  barking,  and  the  bats  squeaking,  and  you 
saying  over,  it's  a  short  while  only  till  you  die. 
[She  goes  out  singing  "  The  night  before 
Larry  was  stretched." 


CURTAIN 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  33 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  :  The  same.  Early  morning.  Sarah 
is  washing  her  face  in  an  old  bucket;  then 
plaits  her  hair.  Michael  is  tidying  himself 
also.  Mary  Byrne  is  asleep  against  the  ditch. 

SARAH  —  to  Michael,  with  pleased  excite- 
ment.— Go  over,  now,  to  the  bundle  beyond, 
and  you'll  find  a  kind  of  a  red  handkerchief 
to  put  upon  your  neck,  and  a  green  one  for 
myself. 

MICHAEL  —  getting  them. —  You're  after 
spending  more  money  on  the  like  of  them. 
Well,  it's  a  power  we're  losing  this  time,  and 
we  not  gaining  a  thing  at  all.  (With  the 
handkerchief.}  Is  it  them  two? 

SARAH.  It  is,  Michael.  (She  takes  one 
of  them. )  Let  you  tackle  that  one  round  under 
your  chin ;  and  let  you  not  forget  to  take  your 
hat  from  your  head  when  we  go  up  into  the 
church.  I  asked  Biddy  Flynn  below,  that's 
after  marrying  her  second  man,  and  she  told 
me  it's  the  like  of  that  they  do. 

[Mary   yawns,   and   turns   over  in   her 
sleep. 

SARAH  —  with  anxiety. —  There  she  is 
waking  up  on  us,  and  I  thinking  we'd  have  the 
job  done  before  she'd  know  of  it  at  all. 


34  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

MICHAEL.  She'll  be  crying  out  now,  and 
making  game  of  us,  and  saying  it's  fools  we 
are  surely. 

SARAH.  I'll  send  her  to  sleep  again,  or 
get  her  out  of  it  one  way  or  another ;  for  it'd 
be  a  bad  case  to  have  a  divil's  scholar  the  like 
of  her  turning  the  priest  against  us  maybe 
with  her  godless  talk. 

MARY  —  waking  up,  and  looking  at  them 
with  curiosity,  blandly. —  That's  fine  things 
you  have  on  you,  Sarah  Casey ;  and  it's  a  great 
stir  you're  making  this  day,  washing  your 
face.  I'm  that  used  to  the  hammer,  I  wouldn't 
hear  it  at  all,  but  washing  is  a  rare  thing,  and 
you're  after  waking  me  up,  and  I  having  a 
great  sleep  in  the  sun. 

[She  looks  around  cautiously  at  the 
bundle  in  which  she  has  hidden  the 
bottles. 

SARAH  —  coaxingly. —  Let  you  stretch 
out  again  for  a  sleep,  Mary  Byrne,  for  it'll 
be  a  middling  time  yet  before  we  go  to  the 
fair. 

MARY  —  with  suspicion. —  That's  a  sweet 
tongue  you  have,  Sarah  Casey;  but  if  sleep's 
a  grand  thing,  it's  a  grand  thing  to  be  waking 
up  a  day  the  like  of  this,  when  there's  a  warm 
sun  in  it,  and  a  kind  air,  and  you'll  hear  the 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  35 

cuckoos  singing  and  crying  out  on  the  top  of 
the  hills. 

SARAH.  If  it's  that  gay  you  are,  you'd 
have  a  right  to  walk  down  and  see  would  you 
get  a  few  halfpence  from  the  rich  men  do  be 
driving  early  to  the  fair. 

MARY.  When  rich  men  do  be  driving 
early,  it's  queer  tempers  they  have,  the  Lord 
forgive  them ;  the  way  it's  little  but  bad  words 
and  swearing  out  you'd  get  from  them  all. 

SARAH  —  losing  her  temper  and  breaking 
out  fiercely. —  Then  if  you'll  neither  beg  nor 
sleep,  let  you  walk  off  from  this  place  where 
you're  not  wanted,  and  not  have  us  waiting 
for  you  maybe  at  the  turn  of  day. 

MARY  —  rather  uneasy,  turning  to  Mi- 
chael.—  God  help  our  spirits,  Michael;  there 
she  is  again  rousing  cranky  from  the  break 
of  dawn.  Oh!  isn't  she  a  terror  since  the 
moon  did  change  (she  gets  up  slowly)  ?  And 
I'd  best  be  going  forward  to  sell  the  gallon 
can. 

[She  goes  over  and  takes  up  the  bundle. 

SARAH  —  crying  out  angrily. —  Leave 
that  down,  Mary  Byrne.  Oh!  aren't  you  the 
scorn  of  women  to  think  that  you'd  have  that 
drouth  and  roguery  on  you  that  you'd  go 
drinking  the  can  and  the  dew  not  dried  from 
the  grass? 


36  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

MARY  —  in  a  feigned  tone  of  pacification, 
with  the  bundle  still  in  her  hand. —  It's  not  a 
drouth  but  a  heartburn  I  have  this  day,  Sarah 
Casey,  so  I'm  going  down  to  cool  my  gullet 
at  the  blessed  well;  and  I'll  sell  the  can  to  the 
parson's  daughter  below,  a  harmless  poor 
creature  would  fill  your  hand  with  shillings 
for  a  brace  of  lies. 

SARAH.  Leave  down  the  tin  can,  Mary 
Byrne,  for  I  hear  the  drouth  upon  your  tongue 
to-day. 

MARY.  There's  not  a  drink-house  from 
this  place  to  the  fair,  Sarah  Casey;  the  way 
you'll  find  me  below  with  the  full  price,  and 
not  a  farthing  gone. 

[She  turns  to  go  off  left. 

SARAH  —  jumping  up,  and  picking  up  the 
hammer  threateningly. —  Put  down  that  can, 
I'm  saying. 

MARY  —  looking  at  her  for  a  moment  in 
terror,  and  putting  down  the  bundle  in  the 
ditch. —  Is  it  raving  mad  you're  going,  Sarah 
Casey,  and  you  the  pride  of  women  to  destroy 
the  world? 

SARAH  —  going  up  to  her,  and  giving  her 
a  push  off  left. —  I'll  show  you  if  it's  raving 
mad  I  am.  Go  on  from  this  place,  I'm  saying, 
and  be  wary  now. 

MARY  —  turning  back   after  her. —  If   I 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  37 

go,  I'll  be  telling  old  and  young  you're  a 
weathered  heathen  savage,  Sarah  Casey,  the 
one  did  put  down  a  head  of  the  parson's  cab- 
bage to  boil  in  the  pot  with  your  clothes  (the 
priest  comes  in  behind  her,  on  the  left,  and 
listens},  and  quenched  the  flaming  candles  on 
the  throne  of  God  the  time  your  shadow  fell 
within  the  pillars  of  the  chapel  door. 

[Sarah  turns  on  her,  and  she  springs 
round  nearly  into  the  Priest's  arms. 
When  she  sees  him,  she  claps  her  shawl 
over  her  mouth,  and  goes  up  towards 
the  ditch,  laughing  to  herself. 

PRIEST  —  going  to  Sarah,  half  terrified 
at  the  language  that  he  has  heard. —  Well, 
aren't  you  a  fearful  lot  ?  I'm  thinking  it's  only 
humbug  you  were  making  at  the  fall  of  night, 
and  you  won't  need  me  at  all. 

SARAH  —  with  anger  still  in  her  voice. — 
Humbug  is  it !  would  you  be  turning  back  upon 
your  spoken  promise  in  the  face  of  God? 

PRIEST  —  dubiously. —  I'm  thinking  you 
were  never  christened,  Sarah  Casey;  and  it 
would  be  a  queer  job  to  go  dealing  Christian 
sacraments  unto  the  like  of  you.  (Persuasive- 
ly feeling  in  his  pocket.}  So  it  would  be  best, 
maybe,  I'd  give  you  L.  shilling  for  to  drink 
my  health,  and  let  you  walk  on,  and  not 
trouble  me  at  all. 


38  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

SARAH.  That's  your  talking,  is  it?  If 
you  don't  stand  to  your  spoken  word,  holy 
father,  I'll  make  my  own  complaint  to  the 
mitred  bishop  in  the  face  of  all. 

PRIEST.     You'd  do  that! 

SARAH.  I  would  surely,  holy  father,  if 
I  walked  to  the  city  of  Dublin  with  blood  and 
blisters  on  my  naked  feet. 

PRIEST  —  uneasily  scratching  his  ear. — 
I  wish  this  day  was  done,  Sarah  Casey;  for 
I'm  thinking  it's  a  risky  thing  getting  mixed 
up  in  any  matters  with  the  like  of  you. 

SARAH.  Be  hast-  then,  and  you'll  have 
us  done  with  before  you'd  think  at  all. 

PRIEST  —  giving  in. —  Well,  maybe  it's 
right  you  are,  and  let  you  come  up  to  the  chapel 
when  you  see  me  looking  from  the  door. 

[He  goes  up  into  the  chapel. 

SARAH  —  calling  after  him. —  We  will, 
and  God  preserve  you,  holy  father. 

MARY  —  coming  down  to  them,  speaking 
with  amazement  and  consternation,  but  with- 
out anger. —  Going  to  the  chapel !  It's  at  mar- 
riage you're  fooling  again,  maybe?  (Sarah 
turns  her  back  on  her.}  It  was  for  that  you 
were  washing  your  face,  and  you  after  sending 
me  for  porter  at  the  fall  of  night  the  way  I'd 
drink  a  good  half  from  the  jug?  (Going 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  39 

round  in  front  of  Sarah.)  Is  it  at  marriage 
you're  fooling  again? 

SARAH  —  triumphantly. —  It  is,  Mary 
Byrne.  I'll  be  married  now  in  a  short  while; 
and  from  this  day  there  will  no  one  have  a 
right  to  call  me  a  dirty  name  and  I  selling  cans 
in  Wicklow  or  Wexford  or  the  city  of  Dublin 
itself. 

MARY  —  turning  to  Michael. —  And  it's 
yourself  is  wedding  her,  Michael  Byrne? 

MICHAEL  —  gloomily. —  It  is,  God  spare 
us. 

MARY  —  looks  at  Sarah  for  a  moment, 
and  then  bursts  out  into  a  laugh  of  derision. — 
Well,  she's  a  tight,  hardy  girl,  and  it's  no  lie; 
but  I  never  knew  till  this  day  it-  was  a  black 
born  fool  I  had  for  a  son.  You'll  breed  asses, 
I've  heard  them  say,  and  poaching  dogs,  and 
horses'd  go  licking  the  wind,  but  it's  a  hard 
thing,  God  help  me,  to  breed  sense  in  a  son. 

MICHAEL  —  gloomily. —  If  I  didn't  mar- 
ry her,  she'd  be  walking  off  to  Jaunting  Jim 
maybe  at  the  fall  of  night;  and  it's  well  your- 
self knows  there  isn't  the  like  of  her  for  getting 
money  and  selling  songs  to  the  men. 

MARY.  And  you're  thinking  it's  paying 
gold  to  his  reverence  would  make  a  woman 
stop  when  she's  a  mind  to  go  ? 

SARAH  —  angrily. —  Let  you  not  be  de- 


4O  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

stroying  us  with  your  talk  when  I've  as  good 
a  right  to  a  decent  marriage  as  any  speckled 
female  does  be  sleeping  in  the  black  hovels 
above,  would  choke  a  mule. 

MARY  —  soothingly. —  It's  as  good  a  right 
you  have  surely,  Sarah  Casey,  but  what  good 
will  it  do?  Is  it  putting  that  ring  on  your 
finger  will  keep  you  from  getting  an  aged 
woman  and  losing  the  fine  face  you  have,  or 
be  easing  your  pains,  when  it's  the  grand  ladies 
do  be  married  in  silk  dresses,  with  rings  of 
gold,  that  do  pass  any  woman  with  their  share 
of  torment  in  the  hour  of  birth,  and  do  be 
paying  the  doctors  in  the  city  of  Dublin  a  great 
price  at  that  time,  the  like  of  what  you'd  pay 
for  a  good  ass  and  a  cart? 

[She  sits  down. 

SARAH  —  puzzled. —  Is  that  the  truth? 

MARY  —  pleased  with  the  point  she  has 
made. —  Wouldn't  any  know  it's  the  truth? 
Ah,  it's  a  few  short  years  you  are  yet  in  the 
world,  Sarah  Casey,  and  it's  little  or  nothing 
at  all  maybe  you  know  about  it. 

SARAH  —  vehement  but  uneasy. —  What 
is  it  yourself  knows  of  the  fine  ladies  when 
they  wouldn't  let  the  like  of  you  go  near  them 
at  all? 

MARY.  If  you  do  be  drinking  a  little  sup 
in  one  town  and  another  town,  it's  soon  you 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  41 

get  great  knowledge  and  a  great  sight  into 
the  world.  You'll  see  men  there,  and  women 
there,  sitting  up  on  the  ends  of  barrels  in  the 
dark  night,  and  they  making  great  talk  would 
soon  have  the  like  of  you,  Sarah  Casey,  as 
wise  as  a  March  hare. 

MICHAEL  —  to  Sarah.—  That's  the  truth 
she's  saying,  and  maybe  if  you've  sense  in  you 
at  all,  you'd  have  a  right  still  to  leave  your 
fooling,  and  not  be  wasting  our  gold. 

SARAH  —  decisively. —  If  it's  wise  or  fool 
I  am,  I've  made  a  good  bargain  and  I'll  stand 
to  it  now. 

MARY.     What  is  it  he's  making  you  give? 

MICHAEL.  The  ten  shillings  in  gold,  and 
the  tin  can  is  above  tied  in  the  sack. 

MARY  —  looking  at  the  bundle  with  sur- 
prise and  dread. —  The  bit  of  gold  and  the 
tin  can,  is  it? 

MICHAEL.  The  half  a  sovereign,  and  the 
gallon  can. 

MARY  —  scrambling  to  her  feet  quickly. — > 
Well,  I  think  I'll  be  walking  off  the  road  to 
the  fair  the  way  you  won't  be  destroying  me 
going  too  fast  on  the  hills.  (She  goes  a  few 
steps  towards  the  left,  then  turns  and  speaks 
to  Sarah  very  persuasively. —  Let  you  not  take 
the  can  from  the  sack,  Sarah  Casey;  for  the 
people  is  coming  above  would  be  making  game 


42  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

of  you,  and  pointing  their  fingers  if  they  seen 
you  do  the  like  of  that.  Let  you  leave  it  safe 
in  the  bag,  I'm  saying,  Sarah  darling.  It's 
that  way  will  be  best. 

[She  goes  towards  left,  and  pauses  for  a 
moment,  looking  about  her  with  em- 
barrassment. 

MICHAEL  —  in  a  low  voice. —  What  ails 
her  at  all? 

SARAH  —  anxiously. —  It's  real  wicked 
she  does  be  when  you  hear  her  speaking  as 
easy  as  that. 

MARY  —  to  herself. —  I'd  be  safer  in  the 
chapel,  I'm  thinking;  for  if  she  caught  me 
after  on  the  road,  maybe  she  would  kill  me 
then. 

[She  comes  hobbling  back  towards  the 

right. 

SARAH.  Where  is  it  you're  going?  It 
isn't  that  way  we'll  be  walking  to  the  fair. 

MARY.  I'm  going  up  into  the  chapel  to 
give  you  my  blessing  and  hear  the  priest 
saying  his  prayers.  It's  a  lonesome  road  is 
running  below  to  Greenane,  and  a  woman 
would  never  know  the  things  might  happen 
her  and  she  walking  single  in  a  lonesome  place. 
[As  she  reaches  the  chapel-gate,  the 

Priest  comes  to  it  in  his  surplice. 
PRIEST  —  crying  out. —  Come  along  now. 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  43 

It  is  the  whole  day  you'd  keep  me  here  saying 
my  prayers,  and  I  getting  my  death  with  not 
a  bit  in  my  stomach,  and  my  breakfast  in  ruins, 
and  the  Lord  Bishop  maybe  driving  on  the 
road  to-day? 

SARAH.     We're  coming  now,  holy  father. 

PRIEST.  Give  me  the  bit  of  gold  into  my 
hand. 

SARAH.     It's  here,  holy  father. 

[She  gives  it  to  him.  Michael  takes  the 
bundle  from  the  ditch  and  brings  it 
over,  standing  a  little  behind  Sarah. 
He  feels  the  bundle,  and  looks  at  Mary 
with  a  meaning  look. 

PRIEST  —  looking  at  the  gold.— It's  a 
good  one,  I'm  thinking,  wherever  3'ou  got  it. 
And  where  is  the  can? 

SARAH  —  taking  the  bundle. —  We  have 
it  here  in  a  bit  of  clean  sack,  your  reverence. 
We  tied  it  up  in  the  inside  of  that  to  keep  it 
from  rusting  in  the  dews  of  night,  and  let  you 
not  open  it  now  or  you'll  have  the  people 
making  game  of  us  and  telling  the  story  on 
us,  east  and  west  to  the  butt  of  the  hills. 

PRIEST  —  taking  the  bundle.  — Give  it 
here  into  my  hand,  Sarah  Casey.  What  is  it 
any  person  would  think  of  a  tinker  making  a 
can.  [He  begins  opening  the  bundle. 

SARAH.     It's  a  fine  can,  your  reverence, 


44  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

for  if  it's  poor  simple  people  we  are,  it's  fine 
cans  we  can  make,  and  himself,  God  help  him, 
is  a  great  man  surely  at  the  trade. 

[Priest  opens  the  bundle;  the  three  empty 
bottles  fall  out. 

SARAH.     Glory  to  the  saints  of  joy! 

PRIEST.  Did  ever  any  man  see  the  like 
of .  that  ?  To  think  you'd  be  putting  deceit 
on  me,  and  telling  lies  to  me,  and  I  going  to 
marry  you  for  a  little  sum  wouldn't  marry  a 
child. 

SARAH  —  crestfallen  and  astonished. — 
It's  the  divil  did  it,  your  reverence,  and  I 
wouldn't  tell  you  a  lie.  (Raising  her  hands.} 
May  the  Lord  Almighty  strike  me  dead  if  the 
divil  isn't  after  hooshing  the  tin  can  from  the 
bag. 

PRIEST  —  vehemently. —  Go  along  now, 
and  don't  be  swearing  your  lies.  Go  along 
now,  and  let  you  not  be  thinking  I'm  big  fool 
enough  to  believe  the  like  of  that,  when  it's 
after  selling  it  you  are  or  making  a  swap  for 
drink  of  it,  maybe,  in  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

MARY  —  in  a  peacemaking  voice,  putting 
her  hand  on  the  Priest's  left  arm. —  She 
wouldn't  do  the  like  of  that,  your  reverence, 
when  she  hasn't  a  decent  standing  drouth  on 
her  at  all ;  and  she's  setting  great  store  on  her 
marriage  the  way  you'd  have  a  right  to  be 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  45 

taking  her  easy,  and  not  minding  the  can. 
What  differ  would  an  empty  can  make  with 
a  fine,  rich,  hardy  man  the  like  of  you? 

SARAH  —  imploringly. —  Marry  us,  your 
reverence,  for  the  ten  shillings  in  gold,  and 
we'll  make  you  a  grand  can  in  the  evening  — 
a  can  would  be  fit  to  carry  water  for  the  holy 
man  of  God.  Marry  us  now  and  I'll  be  saying 
fine  prayers  for  you,  morning  and  night,  if 
it'd  be  raining  itself,  and  it'd  be  in  two  black 
pools  I'd  be  setting  my  knees. 

PRIEST  —  loudly.—  It's  a  wicked,  thiev- 
ing, lying,  scheming  lot  you  are,  the  pack  of 
you.  Let  you  walk  off  now  and  take  every 
stinking  rag  you  have  there  from  the  ditch. 

MARY  —  putting  her  shawl  over  her  head. 
Marry  her,  your  reverence,  for  the  love  of 
God,  for  there'll  be  queer  doings  below  if  you 
send  her  off  the  like  of  that  and  she  swearing 
crazy  on  the  road. 

SARAH  —  angrily. —  It's  the  truth  she's 
saying;  for  it's  herself,  I'm  thinking,  is  after 
swapping  the  tin  can  for  a  pint,  the  time  she 
was  raging  mad  with  the  drouth,  and  our- 
selves above  walking  the  hill. 

MARY  —  crying  out  with  indignation. — 
Have  you  no  shame,  Sarah  Casey,  to  tell  lies 
unto  a  holy  man? 

SARAH  —  to  Mary,  working  herself  into 


46  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

a  rage. —  It's  making  game  of  me  you'd  be, 
and  putting  a  fool's  head  on  me  in  the  face 
of  the  world;  but  if  you  were  thinking  to  be 
mighty  cute  walking  off,  or  going  up  to  hide 
in  the  church,  I've  got  you  this  time,  and 
you'll  not  run  from  me  now. 

[She  seises  up  one  of  the  bottles. 

MARY  —  hiding  behind  the  priest. —  Keep 
her  off,  your  reverence,  keep  her  off  for  the 
love  of  the  Almighty  God.  What  at  all  would 
the  Lord  Bishop  say  if  he  found  me  here 
lying  with  my  head  broken  across,  or  the  two 
of  yous  maybe  digging  a  bloody  grave  for 
me  at  the  door  of  the  church? 

PRIEST  —  waving  Sarah  off. —  Go  along, 
Sarah  Casey.  Would  you  be  doing  murder  at 
my  feet?  Go  along  from  me  now,  and  wasn't 
I  a  big  fool  to  have  to  do  with  you  when  it's 
nothing  but  distraction  and  torment  I  get 
from  the  kindness  of  my  heart? 

SARAH  —  shouting. —  I've  bet  a  power  of 
strong  lads  east  and  west  through  the  world, 
and  are  you  thinking  I'd  turn  back  from  a 
priest?  Leave  the  road  now,  or  maybe  I 
would  strike  yourself. 

PRIEST.  You  would  not,  Sarah  Casey. 
I've  no  fear  for  the  lot  of  you;  but  let  you 
walk  off,  I'm  saying,  and  not  be  coming  where 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  47 

you've  no  business,  and  screeching  tumult  and 
murder  at  the  doorway  of  the  church. 

SARAH.  I'll  not  go  a  step  till  I  have  her 
head  broke,  or  till  I'm  wed  with  himself.  If 
you  want  to  get  shut  of  us,  let  you  marry  us 
now,  for  I'm  thinking  the  ten  shillings  in  gold 
is  a  good  price  for  the  like  of  you,  and  you 
near  burst  with  the  fat. 

PRIEST.  I  wouldn't  have  you  coming  in 
on  me  and  soiling  my  church;  for  there's 
nothing  at  all,  I'm  thinking,  would  keep  the 
like  of  you  from  hell.  (He  throws  down  the 
ten  shillings  on  the  ground.}  Gather  up  your 
gold  now,  and  begone  from  my  sight,  for  if 
ever  I  set  an  eye  on  you  again  you'll  hear  rne 
telling  the  peelers  who  it  was  stole  the  black 
ass  belonging  to  Philly  O'Cullen,  and  whose 
hay  it  is  the  grey  ass  does  be  eating. 

SARAH.     You'd  do  that? 

PRIEST.     I  would,  surely. 

SARAH.  If  you  do,  you'll  be  getting  all 
the  tinkers  from  Wicklow  and  Wexford,  and 
the  County  Meath,  to  put  up  block  tin  in  the 
place  of  glass  to  shield  your  windows  where 
you  do  be  looking  out  and  blinking  at  the  girls. 
It's  hard  set  you'll  be  that  time,  I'm  telling 
you,  to  fill  the  depth  of  your  belly  the  long 
days  of  Lent;  for  we  wouldn't  leave  a  laying 
pullet  in  your  yard  at  all. 


48  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

PRIEST  —  losing  his  temper  finally. —  Go 
on,  now,  or  I'll  send  the  Lords  of  Justice  a 
dated  story  of  your  villainies  —  burning, 
stealing,  robbing,  raping  to  this  mortal  day. 
Go  on  now,  I'm  saying,  if  you'd  run  from 
Kilmainham  or  the  rope  itself. 

MICHAEL  —  taking  off  his  coat. —  Is  it 
run  from  the  like  of  you,  holy  father?  Go  up 
to  your  own  shanty,  or  I'll  beat  you  with  the 
ass's  reins  till  the  world  would  hear  you  roar- 
ing from  this  place  to  the  coast  of  Clare. 

PRIEST.  Is  it  lift  your  hand  upon  myself 
when  the  Lord  would  blight  your  members 
if  you'd  touch  me  now?  Go  on  from  this. 

[He  gives  him  a  shove. 

MICHAEL.     Blight   me   is   it?     Take   it 

then,  your  reverence,  and  God  help  you  so. 

[He  runs  at  him  with  the  reins. 

PRIEST  —  runs  up  to  ditch  crying  out. — 
There  are  the  peelers  passing  by  the  grace  of 
God hey,  below! 

MARY  —  clapping  her  hand  over  his 
mouth. —  Knock  him  down  on  the  road ;  they 
didn't  hear  him  at  all. 

[Michael  pulls  him  down. 

SARAH.     Gag  his  jaws. 

MARY.     Stuff  the  sacking  in  his  teeth. 
[They  gag  him  with  the  sack  that  had 
the  can  in  it. 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  49 

SARAH.  Tie  the  bag  around  his  head, 
and  if  the  peelers  come,  we'll  put  him  head- 
first in  the  boghole  is  beyond  the  ditch. 

[They  tie  him  up  in  some  sacking. 

MICHAEL  —  to  Mary. —  Keep  him  quiet, 
and  the  rags  tight  on  him  for  fear  he'd 
screech.  (He  goes  back  to  their  camp.) 
Hurry  with  the  things,  Sarah  Casey.  The 
peelers  aren't  coming  this  way,  and  maybe 
we'll  get  off  from  them  now. 

[They  bundle  the  things  together  in 
wild  haste,  the  priest  wriggling  and 
struggling  about  on  the  ground,  with 
old  Mary  trying  to  keep  him  quiet. 

MARY  —  patting  his  head. —  Be  quiet, 
your  reverence.  What  is  it  ails  you,  with 
your  wrigglings  now?  Is  it  choking  maybe? 
(She  puts  her  hand  under  the  sack,  and  feels 
his  mouth,  patting  him  on  the  back.)  It's 
only  letting  on  you  are,  holy  father,  for  your 
nose  is  blowing  back  and  forward  as  easy  as 
an  east  wind  on  an  April  day.  (In  a  soothing 
voice.}  There  now,  holy  father,  let  you  stay 
easy,  I'm  telling  you,  and  learn  a  little  sense 
and  patience,  the  way  you'll  not  be  so  airy 
again  going  to  rob  poor  sinners  of  their  scraps 
of  gold.  (He  gets  quieter.}  That's  a  good 
boy  you  are  now,  your  reverence,  and  let  you 
not  be  uneasy,  for  we  wouldn't  hurt  you  at 


5O  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

all.  It's  sick  and  sorry  we  are  to  tease  you; 
but  what  did  you  want  meddling  with  the 
like  of  us,  when  it's  a  long  time  we  are  going 
our  own  ways  —  father  and  son,  and  his  son 
after  him,  or  mother  and  daughter,  and  her 
own  daughter  again  —  and  it's  little  need  we 
ever  had  of  going  up  into  a  church  and  swear- 
ing—  I'm  told  there's  swearing  with  it  —  a 
word  no  man  would  believe,  or  with  drawing 
rings  on  our  fingers,  would  be  cutting  our 
skins  maybe  when  we'd  be  taking  the  ass  from 
the  shafts,  and  pulling  the  straps  the  time 
they'd  be  slippy  with  going  around  beneath 
the  heavens  in  rains  falling. 

MICHAEL  —  who  has  finished  bundling 
up  the  things,  comes  over  to  Sarah. —  We're 
fixed  now;  and  I > have  a  mind  to  run  him  in 
a  boghole  the  way  he'll  not  be  tattling  to  the 
peelers  of  our  games  to-day. 

SARAH.  You'd  have  a  right  too,  I'm 
thinking. 

MARY  —  soothingly. —  Let  you  not  be 
rough  with  him,  Sarah  Casey,  and  he  after 
drinking  his  sup  of  porter  with  us  at  the  fall 
of  night.  Maybe  he'd  swear  a  mighty  oath 
he  wouldn't  harm  us,  and  then  we'd  safer 
loose  him;  for  if  we  went  to  drown  him, 
they'd  maybe  hang  the  batch  of  us,  man  and 
child  and  woman,  and  the  ass  itself. 


THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING  51 

MICHAEL.  What  would  he  care  for  an 
oath? 

MARY.  Don't  you  know  his  like  do  live 
in  terror  of  the  wrath  of  God?  (Putting  her 
mouth  to  the  Priest's  ear  in  the  sacking.} 
Would  you  swear  an  oath,  holy  father,  to 
leave  us  in  our  freedom,  and  not  talk  at  all? 
(Priest  nods  in  sacking.}  Didn't  I  tell  you? 
Look  at  the  poor  fellow  nodding  his  head  off 
in  the  bias  of  the  sacks.  Strip  them  off  from 
him,  and  he'll  be  easy  now. 

MICHAEL  —  as  if  speaking  to  a  horse. — 
Hold  up,  holy  father. 

[He  pulls  the  sacking  off,  and  shows  the 
priest  with  his  hair  on  end.  They  free 
his  mouth. 

MARY.     Hold  him  till  he  swears. 

PRIEST  —  in  a  faint  voice. —  I  swear 
surely.  If  you  let  me  go  in  peace,  I'll  not 
inform  against  you  or  say  a  thing  at  all,  and 
may  God  forgive  me  for  giving  heed  unto 
your  like  to-day. 

SARAH  —  puts  the  ring  on  his  finger. — 
There's  the  ring,  holy  father,  to  keep  you 
minding  of  your  oath  until  the  end  of  time; 
for  my  heart's  scalded  with  your  fooling;  and 
it'll  be  a  long  day  till  I  go  making  talk  of 
marriage  or  the  like  of  that. 

MARY  —  complacently,  standing  up  slow- 


52  THE  TINKER'S  WEDDING 

ly. —  She's  vexed  now,  your  reverence ;  and 
let  you  not  mind  her  at  all,  for  she's  right 
surely,  and  it's  little  need  we  ever  had  of  the 
like  of  you  to  get  us  our  bit  to  eat,  and  our 
bit  to  drink,  and  our  time  of  love  when  we 
were  young  men  and  women,  and  were  fine 
to  look  at. 

MICHAEL.     Hurry  on  now.    He's  a  great 

man  to  have  kept  us  from  fooling  our  gold; 

and  we'll  have  a  great  time  drinking  that  bit 

with  the  trampers  on  the  green  of  Clash. 

[They  gather  up  their  things.    The  priest 

stands  up. 

PRIEST  —  lifting  up  his  hand. —  I've 
sworn  not  to  call  the  hand  of  man  upon  your 
crimes  to-day;  but  I  haven't  sworn  I  wouldn't 
call  the  fire  of  heaven  from  the  hand  of  the 
Almighty  God. 

[He  begins  saying  a  Latin  malediction  in 

a  loud  ecclesiastical  voice. 
MARY.     There's  an  old  villain. 
ALL  —  together. —  Run,    run.      Run    for 
your  lives. 

[They  rush  out,  leaving  the  Priest  master 
of  the  situation. 


CURTAIN 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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